THE 


OB, 


THPFF  CHRISTMAS  EVES. 


BT  THE  AUTHOR  OF 
LEIGH'S  MISSION,  ETO. 


BOSTON: 
PUBLISHED   BY  TRA   BRADLEY  &  CO. 

1G2  WASHINGTON  STREET. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER? 
Robin's  Home, ,          .       § 

CHAPTER  1L 
Not  Afraid, 39 

CHAPTER  HL 
The  World  Outside  the  Wood,     -          -  -          -     40 

CHAPTER  IV. 
Fire  at  the  Farm,   -  -  -  .  .  -4ft 

CHAPTER  V. 
By  the  River  Side,-  -  -  .  .  -61 

CHAPTER  VI. 
The  Cabin  of  the  Lighter,-  -  -  -     §1 

CHAPTER  VH. 
Robin'a  Neighbor, 93 

CHAPTER  VHL 

The  Rescue,  -  -  -  -    108 


2054060 


IT  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER   IX. 
Temptation, 122 

CHAPTER  X. 
A  Way  to  Escape. 141 

CHAPTER  XI. 

Christmas  at  the  Old  Hall,          -          -          -  -    148 

CHAPTER  XH. 
The  Unexpected  Guest,      -  ...    170 

CHAPTER  XHL 
The  Third  Christmas  Ev%  -          .  .    ISO 


fe  faithful  Son ;  otf  wkm  |[telma|  f 


CHAPTER  I. 
ROBIN'S  HOME. 

fN  a  sunny   clearing  in  the  midst  of  a 
thick  wood  there  stood,  some  years 
ago,  a  tiny  cottage.     So  small  was  it, 
that  it  seemed  to  have  but  one  room ;  but 
when  you  looked  closer  you  could  see  a 
little  window  almost  hidden  under  the  wide 
thatched  eaves,  which  showed  that  there 
must  be  a  garret  in  the  roof. 

It  was  a  green  and  silent  spot  in  which 
this  cottage  was  built;  behind  it  was  a 
small  patch  of  garden,  with  rows  of  cab- 
bages and  a  herb-bed  ;  but,  save  this  one 
plot  of  dark  soil,  you  saw  on  every  side 


6  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

close  grass,  or  the  soft  green  moss  that 
clothed  the  brown  roots  of  the  trees. 

On  the  mossy  turf  moved  slowly  the 
shadows  of  the  mighty  branches  overhead, 
and  little  specks  of  flickering  sunlight 
danced  among  them,  as  the  leaves  flattered 
in  the  summer  wind.  Merry  squirrels 
sprang  lightly  from  bough  to  bough,  while 
from  many  a  hidden  nook  sounded  the 
soft  coo  of  the  wood-pigeon,  making  even 
deeper,  when  the  low  plaintive  note  had 
ceased,  the  peaceful  hush  around. 

It  was  five  o'clock  on  a  morning  in  early 
autumn ;  the  sun  had  not  long  risen,  and 
the  grass  under  the  trees  was  white  with 
thick-sown  dew-drops.  Nothing  living  was 
to  be  seen  near  the  cottage,  save  a  lurcher 
dog  who  waited  patiently,  with  hanging 
head,  before  the  fast-closed  door,  and  a 
group  of  busy  hens,  actively  scratching  up 
the  grass  under  one  of  the  nearer  trees. 

Presently,  as  if  at  some  call  or  signal, 
they  all  hastened,  with  outspread  wings 
and  open  beaks,  towards  the  cottage;  and 


BOBIN'S  HOME.  7 

the  dog,  pricking  up  his  ears  and  wagging 
his  tail,  looked  up  at  the  little  window, 
from  which  a  boy's  head  was  thrust  out  — 
a  head  which  seemed  to  be  a  crop  of  shaggy 
uncombed  hair,  almost  covering  the  bright 
dark  eyes  which  were  looking  down  on  the 
group  below  the  window. 

"  Hush,  Grip,  hush  thee  !  "  he  said,  earn- 
estly, holding  up  his  finger,  as  the  dog 
gave  a  sharp  quick  bark.  "  Father's  asleep, 
as  you  might  know  if  you'd  give  it  a 
thought ;  you  and  he  were  late  enough 
coming  in  last  night.  You'd  best  not  wake 
him,  I  can  tell  you ;  but  I'll  be  down  and 
give  you  your  breakfast,  if  you  keep 
quiet." 

In  another  minute  the  boy,  who  might 
be  perhaps  twelve  years  old,  but  tall  and 
heavily  made  for  his  years,  softly  unbarred 
the  door,  and  sitting  down  on  the  step, 
took  the  dog  between  his  knees,  and  began 
to  feed  him  with  the  remains  of  his  own 
supper,  while  from  time  to  time  he  threw 
a  little  barley  for  the  fowls,  that  chased 


8  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

and  ate  it,  and  then  returned,  gathering 
close  about  him. 

"  So  you  had  good  sport  last  night,  Grip," 
whispered  the  boy  into  the  ear  of  the  dog, 
who  looked  up  intelligently  in  his  face.  "  I 
saw  the  string  of  birds  father  brought 
home,  and  the  hares  too.  We  shall  have  a 
first-rate  supper  to-night,  I  tell  you,  Grip, 
and  a  fine  feast  of  bones  for  you ;  but  you 
know  all  about  it,  don't  you,  old  fellow  ? " 

A  heavy  step  stumbling  down  the  little 
wooden  staircase  which  led  into  the  kitchen 
made  the  boy  start  to  his  feet  with  a 
frightened  look  ;  and  running  into  the  cot- 
tage, he  had  seized  the  kettle  and  was  half 
way  to  the  spring  to  fill  it,  before  his  father, 
half  asleep,  and  thrusting  his  arms,  as  he 
walked,  into  his  dirty  gray  shirt,  had  crossed 
to  the  open  door. 

"Why  ain't  the  fire  lit,  you  lazy  good- 
for-nought  ?  "  grumbled  he,  as  Robin  came 
back  with  the  kettle. 

The  boy  made  no  answer,  but  gathering 
a  bundle  of  dry  sticks  and  fir-cones  from 


BOBIN'S  HOME.  9 

under  the  nearer  trees,  had  soon  set  the 
kettle  in  the  midst  of  a  bright  blaze.  He 
then  placed  on  the  table  some  bread,  some 
dripping  in  a  broken  saucer,  and,  at  his 
father's  order,  a  piece  of  a  large  pasty, 
which  the  man  at  once  appropriated  as  his 
own  share,  while  Robin  stood  looking  on 
with  hungry  eyes  until  the  dish  was  empty, 
and  his  father  found  leisure  to  speak  again. 

"You  are  a  good  son,  you  are;  your  father 
may  be  out  half  the  night  after  food  for 
you ;  "  (here  Robin,  with  almost  a  smile, 
looked  at  the  empty  dish)  ;  "  he  may  come 
home  tired  out,  and  having  catched  the 
fever  or  the  rheumatics,  most  like,  wading 
in  the  water  and  what  not ;  but  you,  you 
are  snug  a-bed,  and  never  so  much  as  give 
it  a  thought  to  have  a  comfortable  basin 
of  tea  ready  for  him  against  he  has  to  be 
off  to  work." 

"I  didn't  think  as  you  would  be  off  to 
work  this  morning,  father,"  answered  Robin. 
"  Mostly  you  lies  a-bed  till  old  Sally  comes 
round,  when  you've  been  out  after  the 


10  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

hares  ;  and  you  said  last  time  you'd  be  the 
death  of  me  if  I  so  much  as  made  the  least 
noise  till  you  waked  up  of  your  own  self." 

"  •  I  said,'  indeed,"  growled  the  father. 
*•  You  are  a  precious  youngster,  telling  your 
father  what  he  said.  You'd  like  me  to  be 
late  a-field,  just  when  Squire  is  after  turning 
off  half  his  men;  'twould  please  you  finely 
to  see  your  father  turned  off." 

"  I  didn't  know  about  Squire,"  answered 
the  boy. 

*•  Then  another  time,  when  you  know 
nothing,  don't  you  say  nothing;  and  now 
I'm  off.  You  bring  me  a  clean  smock,  and 
tie  up  some  bread  and  cheese  for  my  twelve 
o'clock,"  said  the  man,  opening  a  small  side 
door,  through  which  he  presently  re-ap- 
peared, carrying  in  his  hand  a  small  hare. 

"  Folks  will  see  it,  father,"  said  the  boy, 
timidly,  as  his  father  stepped  out  of  the 
cottage  door,  carrying  the  hare  in  one  hand, 
and  his  dinner,  tied  with  knots  into  a  blue 
checked  handkerchief,  in  the  other. 

"  Folks  is   welcome  to  see  it,"   said  the 


BOBIN'S  HOME.  11 

man,  turning  round :  "  they'll  need  all  theii 
eyes  before  they  see  anything  wrong  about 
it.  I'm  a-going  right  to  the  Squire  with 
this  hare.  Says  I,  '  Squire,  this  here  beast 
ain't  none  of  mine ;  'twere  shot,  I  reckon, 
a  matter  of  three  days  ago,  when  that  cap- 
tain chap  were  at  the  hall ;  and  last  night, 
when  I  was  a-coming  home  from  work,  I 
found  it ;  and  here  is  your  property,  Squire.' 
Ha,  ha,"  laughed  the  man,  with  a  cunning 
look,  "I  don't  fancy  I  shall  be  the  one 
turned  off  after  that." 

"But,  father,  Squire  will  see  plain  enough 
that  it  were  cotched  in  a  trap.  Why,  it 
have  got  ite  leg  broke." 

"  You  be  quiet  with  your  talk  about 
traps;  do  you  want  to  get  me  into  trouble? 
You  had  better  keep  a  still  tongue  in  your 
head,  I  can  tell  you  :  and  mind  you,  when 
old  Sally  comes,  don't  you  let  her  into  the 
pantry.  Pack  her  basket  yourself,  and 
cover  the  birds  and  the  hares  well  up  with 
her  butter  and  eggs  and  what  not.  There 
is  one  hare  put  by  safe  for  my  supper  ;  the 


12  THE   FAITHFUL  SON. 

rest  are  for  old  Sally  to  sell  in  the  town. 
Do  you  hear?" 

"  Yes,  father,"  said  Robin,  half  sullenly. 

"Then  mind  what  you're  about  till  I 
coine  home  ;  no  playing  and  talking  with 
those  good-for-nothing  boys.  You  stay 
here,  and  mind  the  fowls,  and  clean  the 
cottage,  and  look  out  for  old  Sally;  that's 
what  you've  got  to  do  ;  "  and  the  man  went 
his  way  under  the  shadow  of  the  pine  trees, 
while  little  Robin  turned  back  slowly  into 
the  empty  cottage. 

The  boy  was  used  to  being  alone,  and  sat 
down  quite  contentedly  on  the  step,  to  eat 
the  slice  of  bread  and  dripping  which  was 
his  breakfast.  He  had  never  known  any 
companions  except  Grip  and  the  fowls,  and 
the  only  faces  familiar  to  him  were  those 
of  his  father  and  old  Sally,  the  woman  who 
came  every  day  to  put  the  two  rooms  in 
order,  and  cook  supper  for  his  father,  and 
who  carried  to  market  the  hares  and  pheas- 
ants which  he  trapped  at  nights,  hidden 
under  her  own  store  of  butter  and  eggs. 


BOBIN'S    HOME.  13 

Robin's  father  was  no  favorite  amongst 
the  rest  of  the  Squire's  laborers.  He  was 
selfish  and  surly,  and  had  won  no  one's 
good  word  during  all  the  eleven  years  he 
had  lived  among  them,  ever  since  he  had 
come  a  stranger  into  the  quiet  village, 
bringing  in  his  arms  his  baby  of  about  a 
year  old,  who  was  at  first  given  into  old 
Sally's  charge,  until  he  grew  big  enough  to 
live  with  his  father  in  the  lonely  cottage 
in  the  heart  of  the  pine  wood.  The  child 
had  been  taught  to  think  of  all  the  other 
boys  of  the  village  as  his  enemies,  to  avoid 
them,  to  run  away  if  he  met  them  bird's- 
nesting,  and  to  refuse  every  offer  of  kind- 
ness or  companionship ;  and  they  were  not 
slow  to  resent  this  by  hunting  him  through 
the  woods,  and  by  threatening  him  with 
what  they  would  do  if  once  they  caught 
him,  until  the  child,  in  terror,  would  rush 
home,  and,  barring  the  door,  sit  trembling 
until  he  heard  either  old  Sally  or  his  father 
coming  through  the  wood.  But  the  timo 
for  this  was  past  now.  Robin  had  growD 


14  THE  FAITHFUL  BOH. 

a  strong,  sturdy  lad,  quite  able,  and  willing, 
too,  to  defend  himself,  and  rather  pleased 
at  any  opportunity  of  showing  his  old  ene- 
mies, the  village  lads,  that  he  was  now  more 
than  their  match.  Perhaps  after  a  few  trials 
of  strength  they  might  have  grown  friendly, 
but  Robin  was  as  shy  as  ever;  not  from 
fear  now,  but  from  a  new  feeling  of  shame  ; 
he  had  begun  to  learn  how  very  ignorant  he 
was.  The  other  boys  went  to  school,  could 
do  sums  on  the  slate,  showed  their  copy- 
books full  of  strange-shaped  letters,  and 
talked  to  each  other  of  the  prizes  and  of 
the  examination,  when  the  Squire  and 
Madam  from  the  Hall  always  came  down 
to  the  school,  to  hear  the  boys  read  and 
answer  questions.  Robin  knew  nothing  of 
all  this ;  he  could  not  read,  nor  write,  nor 
make  one  figure  on  a  slate,  and  he  fancied 
that  the  other  boys  were  always  thinking 
of  this  diffonence  between  them,  and  de- 
spising him  for  his  ignorance.  Even  little 
Lettice  Martin,  who  was  only  about  half  his 
age,  a  mite  of  a  child,  whom  he  could  carry 


ROBIN'S  HOME.  15 

with  one  hand,  he  thought,  trotted  along 
to  school  every  morning  with  a  slate  almost 
as  big  as  herself,  and  often  laughed  at  Robin 
for  a  great  dunce,  when  she  saw  him  idly 
leaning  over  the  stile  in  the  morning  as  she 
passed  by. 

Robin  was  not  old  enough,  and  did  not 
know  enough  to  want  to  learn  for  its  own 
sake.  He  scarcely  even  knew  what  learn- 
ing meant,  only  it  was  something  the  want 
of  which  divided  him  from  every  one  else  ; 
so  that  it  mattered  little  that  he  could  run 
faster  and  climb  better  than  any  other  boy 
of  his  own  age  for  a  mile  round ;  that  he 
knew  where  all  the  birds'  nests  were  hidden, 
and  the  otter's  hole  under  the  old  ash ;  that 
he  could  dive  off  the  big  stone,  and  swim  to 
the  little  island  in  the  middle  of  the  pool ; 
all  this,  Robin  thought,  was  nothing,  so  long 
as  this  wonderful,  mysterious  learning  was  a 
thing  quite  unknown  to  him. 

But  already  Robin  was  secretly  trying  to 
learn  a  little.  About  six  months  ago,  a 
peddler,  coming  to  the  village  with  his  pack 


16  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

of  new  prints  and  bright  ribbons  foi  the 
opening  spring,  had  stopped  to  rest  awhile 
at  the  cottage.  Robin,  alone  as  usual,  was 
glad  to  talk  a  little  with  this  stranger,  and 
to  look  with  wondering  eyes  at  the  myste- 
rious bundles  which  had  been  unstrapped 
from  the  peddler's  shoulder,  and  placed  in 
the  corner  of  the  kitchen. 

"  You  ought  to  be  at  school,  my  lad," 
said  the  man,  when,  refreshed  with  a 
draught  of  buttermilk  which  Robin  had 
brought  him,  he  prepared  to  set  out  again 
on  his  journey ;  "  you  are  too  big  a  lad  to 
waste  your  time  idling  about  in  the  wood." 
44  Father  won't  hear  nought  about  my 
going,"  said  Robin. 

"Nay,  but  that's  a  pity;  father  should 
have  more  sense,"  said  the  peddler.  "  Folks 
don't  make  their  way  in  the  world  nowadays 
without  book-learning.  Look  you  here  at 
me.  I'm  a  sharp  chap,  though  I  say  it,  but 
I'm  no  scholar,  and  so  I'm  tied  down  to  be 
nothing  but  a  packman  all  my  days.  If  I 
could  write  and  cast  accounts  I  should  have 


ROBIN'S  HOME.  17 

had  a  shop  of  my  own  long  before  now. 
Ay,  it's  a  pity  about  father." 

"  Don't  you  think  I  could  learn  myself  ?  " 
asked  Robin,  timidly. 

"  It's  according  to  what  you  have  here," 
answered  his  new  friend,  touching  his  fore- 
head, "  and  whether  you  know  anything  to 
feel  your  way  with,  as  it  were.  Your  let- 
ters, now  —  you'll  have  been  taught  your 
letters,  surefo/?" 

"Not  one,"  said  the  boy,  hanging  his 
head.  "  I  don't  rightly  know  what  letters 
are." 

"Dear,  dear!  Well,  'tis  not  too  late  to 
make  a  beginning,  boy.  I  have  something 
in  my  pack  that  will  maybe  give  you  a 
start,  and  you  shall  have  it  for  nothing. 
Tis  not  worth  much,  and  that's  the  fact, 
but  I  can't  spare  you  one  of  my  gay  books, 
for  sixpence  is  sixpence  to  such  as  me."  So 
saying,  the  peddler  took  from  a  corner  of  one 
of  his  packages  a  few  leaves  of  some  primer 
or  catechism  roughly  stitched  together,  and 
put  them  into  the  boy's  hand. 


18  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

"There's  the  commandments  and  what 
not  printed  out  plain  there,"  said  the  man. 
"  You  get  some  one  to  spell  it  over  to  you, 
and  you'll  be  learning  something  good  at 
the  same  time  as  you  learn  your  letters." 

Then  the  man  went,  and  left  little  Robin 
turning  over  the  pages,  on  which  no  mark 
or  sign  had  for  Mm  any  meaning,  and  won- 
dering much  what  this  new  word  "com- 
mandments" could  mean. 

He  and  Grip  had  held  a  long  consultation, 
with  their  heads  together  over  the  little 
book,  Robin  earnestly  considering  whether 
he  should  venture  to  ask  little  Lettice  to 
teach  him  his  letters,  when  old  Sally  came 
in  as  usual. 

She  was  so  deaf  that  no  one  ever  at- 
tempted to  do  more  than  shout  short  sen- 
tences in  her  ear,  so  Robin  only  held  up 
the  leaf  over  which  he  had  been  poring, 
without  saying  a  word;  but  when  the  old 
woman  saw  it  her  eyes  brightened.  Sitting 
down,  and  running  her  fingers  along  the 
lines,  she  began  to  read  aloud  the  words 


EOBIN'S  HOME.  19 

of  the  first  commandment,  in  a  shrill  voice, 
which  rose  and  fell  unchecked  by  the  dull 
ear. 

"  I  knew  them  by  heart  when  I  was  a 
girl,"  she  said  in  explanation ;  and  Robin  at 
once  gave  up  the  idea  of  asking  help  from 
Lettice,  and  coaxed  old  Sally  to  read  the 
commandments  over  to  him  every  day, 
pointing  to  each  word  as  she  read  it,  until 
he  too  was  able  to  read  them  nearly  as 
correctly  as  the  old  woman  herself.  This 
very  autumn  morning  he  had  planned  to  go 
over  them  to  himself  yet  once  more,  before 
astonishing  little  Lettice  with  his  wonderful 
knowledge,  a  feat  on  which  he  had  long  set 
his  heart;  and  now,  taking  his  book,  he 
settled  himself  in  a  favorite  seat  in  one  of 
the  branches  of  a  large  tree  near  the  cot- 
tage, and  began  his  work  once  more,  stead- 
ily and  carefully. 

He  knew  all  the  words  perfectly  until  he 
reached  the  eighth  commandment,  but  there 
the  short  word  at  the  end  puzzled  him,  and  he 
stopped  in  doubt,  repeating  over  and  over 


20  TELE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

to  himself,  "thou  shalt  not,"  and  vainly 
hoping  that  the  lost  word  would  come  back 
to  his  memory.  At  last  he  recollected  it, — 
"  Thou  shalt  not  steal," —  and  for  the  first 
time  it  came  into  his  mind  to  wonder  what 
the  words  themselves  meant. 

Hitherto  it  had  never  occurred  to  him  that 
there  was  anything  in  them  to  understand. 
Words  in  a  printed  book  were,  to  his 
thought,  of  ,a  kind  quite  different  from  the 
sounds  which  expressed  to  him  the  things  he 
saw  around  him.  They  were  something 
which  it  was  necessary  to  be  able  to  say 
aloud,  which  clever  boys  could  say  easily, 
but  which  gave  him  a  great  deal  of  trouble 
to  remember,  and  beyond  this  his  mind  had 
never  reached;  but  this  word  "steal,"  which 
it  had  puzzled  him  so  to  recall,  had  set  his 
thoughts,  for  the  first  time,  to  work. 

That  was  what  the  boys  wanted  him  to  do 
who  had  asked  him,  only  yesterday,  to  go 
with  them  at  night  and  gather  the  apples  in 
the  Squire's  orchard.  He  half  consented, 
being  pleased  by  the  idea  of  showing  them 


ROBIN'S  HOME.  21 

how  well  he  could  climb  ;  he  had  thought  it 
would  be  a  good  bit  of  fun.  But  what  could 
this  mean,  "  Thou  shalt  not  steal  "  ?  Who 
said  so?  and  had  it  anything  to  do  with 
himself? 

Robin  knew  that  when  people  were 
caught  in  the  act  of  stealing  they  were 
sometimes  sent  to  prison ;  but  right  and 
wrong  were  words  which  he  hardly  under- 
stood. Yet  there  were  some  things  which 
the  boy  could  neither  have  been  led  nor 
forced  to  do  ;  he  would  never  tell  a  lie,  nor 
strike  a  boy  smaller  than  himself,  not  hurt  a 
dumb  animal.  When  he  saw  Bob  Symonds, 
the  biggest  boy  in  the  school,  trying  to 
frighten  little  Lettice  into  giving  him  the 
ripe  wood  strawberries  she  had  gathered  for 
her  brother,  ill  at  home,  did  he  not  fly  at 
him  at  once,  furious  and  fearless,  and  so 
surprised  the  cowardly  lad,  that  he  was  glad 
enough  to  get  away,  and  leave  Lettice  to 
carry  her  leaf  full  of  strawberries  home  quite 
safely,  under  Robin's  proud  escort  ? 

But  these  words,  "Thou  shalt  not  steal," 


22  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

brought  quite  a  new  idea  into  the  narrow 
circle  of  Robin's  thoughts.  Who  said  them  ? 
he  wondered.  Who  had  the  right  to  say 
them  ?  Why  shouldn't  he  steal  if  he  liked? 
The  boy  began  to  wish  for  some  one  to  tell 
him  the  meaning  of  the  words  he  saw.  A 
footstep  coming  through  the  wood  made  him 
look  up  from  his  book,  and  pushing  aside  a 
bough,  he  saw  old  -Sally,  with  her  basket  of 
eggs,  on  the  way  to  the  cottage. 

In  a  moment  he  scrambled  down  the  tree, 
and  was  walking  beside  her.  When  they 
reached  the  door  Robin  pointed  to  the  sen- 
tence over  which  he  had  been  musing,  and 
putting  his  lips  to  the  old  woman's  ear, 
shouted  in  his  loudest  voice,  "  What  does 
it  mean  ?  " 

"  Bless  your  heart,"  answered  the  old 
woman,  testily,  "I  can  hear  you  plain 
enough.  '  Steal,'  yes,  '  thou  shalt  not  steal ; ' 
that's  how  we  used  to  say  it  when  I  was  a 
girl." 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?  "  shouted  Robin 
again. 


fcOBIN's  HOME.  23 

"Ah,  you  are  right.  I  have  heard  it  a 
many  times.  My  little  Tim,  that's  been 
dead  this  twenty  years,  and  was  a  man  when 
he  died,  he  used  to  say  them  off  as  pretty — " 

Robin  could  not  wait  for  the  end  of  the 
old  woman's  speech,  but  plucked  at  her 
sleeve  and  shouted,  "  Mean,  mean  !  "  into 
her  ear  so  often,  that  at  last  she  understood. 

"  *  Mean ' ;  it  means  my  cabbages  that  you 
wicked  boys  are  always  after,  that  I've  no 
peace  of  my  life  for  watching  and  worrying. 
I'm  not  meaning  you,  Robin,  but  boys  do 
•seem  as  if  they  were  made  for  nothing  but 
to  plague  an  old  woman  like  me." 

"The   Squire's  apples ?"  shouted  Robin. 

"  Ah,  yes,"  said  the  old  woman,  thinking 
of  the  little  tree  in  front  of  her  own  cot- 
tage, whose  fast-ripening  fruit  she  dreaded 
to  see  taken  from  her  by  her  natural  ene- 
mies, the  village  boys.  "Apples  or  pears 
or  what  not,  'tis  all  one  ;  'tis  put  down  here 
plain  enough." 

"But  who  put  it  down  here — who  says 
it,  Sally?" 


24  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

The  old  woman's  manner  changed,  and  an 
uneasy  look  came  over  her  stolid,  expres- 
sionless face.  "  '  Who  says  it  ?  '  Why,  you 
might  be  a  heathen,  child,  to  ask  such  a 
question.  Here,  get  me  the  hares,  if  father 
has  got  any,  and  let  me  be  off.  I  shall  be 
late  in  the  market,  else." 

"  Tell  me  who  says  it,  Sally,  and  I'll  get 
the  things,"  said  Robin,  earnestly. 

"  I  never  knew  such  a  boy,"  muttered  the 
old  woman,  testily,  "  asking  questions  that 
a  child  of  two  years  could  answer ;  making 
as  if  you  didn't  know  that  it  was  God 
Almighty  wrote  the  commandments.  There, 
let  me  go ;  and  now  be  sharp,  I  tell  you,  I've 
not  a  minute  to  spare." 


CHAPTER  H. 


NOT  AFRAID. 


old  Sally  had  left  the  cottage, 
Robin  sat  still  for  some  time,  think- 
ing over  what  she  had  said.  He  had 
never  been  taught  about  God,  and  yet  some 
few  thoughts  and  ideas  about  Him  had  found 
their  way  into  the  boy's  mind,  but  he  had 
never  till  now  looked  at  them,  or  tried  to 
put  them  in  order. 

He  believed  that  all  the  things  about  him 
—  that  he  himself,  and  his  father,  and  all 
the  people  in  the  village,  had  been  made  by 
God,  and  that  this  great  God  lived  in 


26  THE  FAITHFUL  8OK. 

heaven,  which  he  thought  of  as  a  place 
somewhere  above  the  tops  of  the  tallest 
pine  trees,  hidden  in  the  pale  blue  of  the 
distant  sky.  But  it  had  never  occurred  to 
him  that  it  was  possible  that  God  cared 
what  he,  a  little  boy,  did,  or  watched  him 
when  he  seemed  quite  alone  under  the 
shadow  of  the  wood,  or  had  cared  to  write 
down  words  to  tell  him  what  was  right  and 
what  was  wrong ;  for  he  believed  the  old 
woman's  words  quite  simply,  and  thought 
that,  somehow  or  other,  the  very  pages  he 
held  had  been  written  by  God  for  him. 

And  because,  written  on  Robin's  heart,  as 
on  the  heart  of  all  the  children  of  the  great 
Father,  there  were  thoughts  which  answered 
to  the  words  which  the  finger  of  God  once 
wrote  upon  the  tables  of  stone,  the  boy 
felt  at  once  that  this  command  was  one 
that  he  was  bound  henceforth  to  obey.  In 
a  certain  sense  he  had  shown  this  before  he 
read  the  words  "  Thou  shalt  not  steal ; " 
but  he  had  contrived  to  silence  his  con- 
science by  using  some  other  word  than  steal 


NOT  AFRAID.  27 

when  he  thought  of  taking  the  Squire's 
apples;  but  now  it  looked  quite  different, 
and  Robin  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would 
have  nothing  to  do  with  it. 

"  They  may  say  what  they  like  ;  they  may 
frighten  me  or  beat  me,"  said  the -boy  to 
himself;  "  but  what  I  mean  I'll  do,  and  what 
I  say  I'll  stand  to ;  and  I'll  have  nothing  to 
do  with  stealing  Squire's  apples."  Robin 
got  up  from  the  ground  and  clenched  his 
fists  sturdily  ;  but  at  that  moment  a  fir-cone 
struck  him  right  on  the  cheek,  and,  looking 
angrily  round,  he  saw  the  laughing  face  of 
Jonas  Raby  peeping  out  from  behind  the 
stem  of  a  tree  a  few  yards  distant.  Jonas 
was  the  only  boy  whom  Robin  liked,  the 
only  one  with  whom  he  ever  talked  at  all, 
and  it  was  he  who  had  brought  him  the 
request  of  the  other  boys  that  he  would 
come  with  them,  as  he  was  such  a  good 
climber,  and  help  to  strip  the  Squire's  fruit 
trees. 

"I  say,  Robin,"  said  Jonas,  coming  nearer, 
and  throwing  himself  down  on  the  grass  by 


28  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

his  companion's  side,  "  are  you  game  to  go 
to-night  ?  Bliss  heard  his  father  saying  how 
the  trees  were  to  be  cleared  to-morrow  — 
cleared,  and  fruit  sold  in  the  market,  for 
Squire  is  off  to  foreign  parts ;  but,  bless 
you,  we'll  save  them  the  trouble,  won't  us, 
lad  ?  " 

"I'm  not  going  with  you,"  said  Robin, 
sitting  bolt  upright. 

"Why,  what's  up  now?"  cried  Jonas, 
looking  at  Robin.  "What's  to  hinder? 
you've  never  been  and  let  on  to  father, 
surely  ?  " 

"  I  don't  tell  tales,"  answered  Robin,  an- 
grily. "  Father  knows  nought  about  it,  but 
I've  made  up  my  mind  not  to  go,  so  it's  no 
use  your  asking  me." 

"  Oh,  but  Robin,"  said  the  other  boy  in  a 
coaxing  tone,  and  passing  his  arm  round  his 
companion's  neck,  "  you  must  come;  it  won't 
be  half  the  fun  without  you,  and  you  don't 
know  how  sweet  the  apples  are  :  they  are  so 
large  and  rosy,  it  makes  my  mouth  water  to 
look  at  them." 


NOT  AFRAID.  29 

Robin  did  not  answer  for  a  moment,  he 
wus  thinking  how  pleasant  it  would  be  to 
bring  home  a  store  of  these  apples,  to  eat 
under  the  trees;  and  while  he  hesitated 
Jonas  went  on. 

"There's  none  of  the  other  boys  believe 
about  your  climbing  and  that.  They  say 
you  can't  do  nothing,  and  I  want  to  show 
them  different;  if  you  cry  off  now  they'll 
say  you  are  a  coward,  Robin,  lad." 

Robin  hesitated  more  and  more ;  this  was 
so  very  different  from  the  answer  he  had 
expected.  He  had  thought  of  himself  as 
defending  himself  bravely  against  the  anger 
of  a  crowd  of  boys  older  and  stronger  than 
himself,  of  proving  that  no  one  could  make 
him  do  anything  but  what  he  chose ;  but 
now  Jonas  was  urging  him  in  his  pleasant 
friendly  voice,  and  the  other  boys  would  say 
he  was  a  coward  if  he  didn't  go.  A  coward, 
indeed !  he  would  like  to  show  them.  It 
was  only  this  once,  and  taking  apples  wasn't 
really  like  stealing  anything  else,  and  they 
belonged  to  the  Squire,  whom  his  father 


30  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

hated  so.     Robin  had  almost  made  up  his 
mind  to  yield. 

It  was  a  very  important  moment  in  little 
Robin's  life  ;  he  did  not  know  it ;  we  scarcely 
ever  do  know  the  importance  of  such  mo- 
ments iill  they  are  long  past,  and  then  we 
can  sometimes  see  how,  for  good  or  for  evil, 
they  have  set  their  mark  on  our  very  souls. 
It  was  the  first  time  in  which  the  boy  had 
ever,  consciously  and  with  open  eyes,  made 
his  choice  between  right  and  wrong.  He 
not  only  knew,  but  in  his  heart  he  felt, 
that  it  was  wrong  to  steal ;  that  taking  the 
Squire's  apples  was  one  of  the  things  which 
God  had  forbidden  in  those  pages  which  His 
finger  had  written,  and  that  he  must  decide 
whether  he  would  obey  God,  or  just  do 
what  would  please  himself  for  the  moment. 
He  did  not  know  anything  about  prayer,  he 
did  not  know  that  God  would  give  him,  if 
he  asked,  strength  to  resist  what  was  wrong ; 
and  the  boy  was  so  nearly  conquered,  that 
he  had  turned  to  Jonas  with  a  promise  on 
his  lips  that  he  would  come  with  them  that 


NOT  AFBAID.  31 

night,  but  the  words  were  never  spoken. 
God  had  pity  on  His  child,  and  did  not  let 
him,  in  this  his  first  fight,  be  tempted  above 
that  he  was  able. 

For  at  this  moment  a  rough  shout  made 
Robin  start  with  sudden  fear;  but  it  was 
only  a  party  of  the  boys  coming  to  look  for 
Jonas,  and  carry  him  off  with  them  for  a 
bathe  in  the  little  river  before  afternoon 
school. 

"  Come  you  along,  old  chap,"  said  the 
first  of  the  new-comers,  pulling  Jonas  up 
from  the  grass.  "  What's  the  use  of  wast- 
ing all  your  time  here  ?  that  old  bell  will  be 
going  directly." 

"  Will  you  come,  or  will  you  not,  that's 
all  about  it?"  he  added,  turning  to  Robin. 

"  Come,  I  should  think  he  would  come," 
said  another  of  the  boys.  "  Do  you  think 
we  should  tell  all  our  plans,  and  let  him  off 
taking  his  share  ?  He'll  come,  or  I'll  soon 
make  him,  that's  all." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  you,"  said  Robinv 
getting  up  from  the  grass.  "  Now  look  you 


32  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

here,  I'll  not  let  on,  I'll  never  say  one  word, 
but  I'm  not  a-going  with  you,  and  so  I  tell 
you." 

"  There'll  be  two  words  to  that,"  said  the 
boy  who  had  spoken  last,  seizing  Robin  by 
the  collar,  but  Jonas  interposed.  "  Let  him 
alone,  you  stupid,  he'll  come  fast  enough, 
if  you'll  only  be  quiet.  Don't  be  a  fool," 
whispered  he,  drawing  Robin  a  little  aside  ; 
"you  know  what  they'll  say  if  you  don't 
come." 

"  We  can't  waste  all  our  time  here,"  said 
another.  "  Tell  us  why  you  won't  go, 
Robin;  no  one  will  find  out ;  there's  never 
any  one  in  the  orchard  of  nights  ;  I  tell  you, 
you  needn't  be  afraid." 

"  I'm  not  afraid,"  answered  Robin,  sturdi- 
ly, drawing  himself  to  his  full  height.  "  I 
won't  go  because  I've  got  a  book  that  God 
Almighty  wrote,  and  it  says  right  plain  I'm 
not  to  steal." 

There'  was  a  loud  sneering  laugh  from 
most  of  the  boys,  only  Jonas  looked  a  little 
uneasy.  "  Is  it  your  father's  son  that's 
turning  saint  ?  "  cried  Bob  Symonds. 


NOT  AFRAID.  33 

"  Turning  sneak,  I  call  it,"  said  another ; 
"  but  I'll  be  even  with  you.  I  know  what 
your  father  said  at  the  public,  night  afore 
last.  He'd  better  mind  hisself,  he  had ; 
firing  corn-ricks  is  worse  a  deal  than  steal- 
ing a  few  apples." 

"  There  is  father,"  cried  Robin,  suddenly  ; 
"  you'd  best  be  off,  I  can  tell  you ;  "  and  the 
boys  evidently  thought  so  too,  for  before  the 
distant  figure,  which  Robin's  quick  eyes  had 
discovered,  reached  the  edge  of  the  clear- 
ing they  had  scampered  back  the  other  way 
as  silently  as  possible,  and  Robin  was  stand- 
ing alone  under  the  tree  when  his  father 
came  up. 

The  boy  was  full  of  wonder  as  to  what 
had  brought  him  home  at  such  an  unusual 
hour,  but  he  dare  not  ask,  for  he  saw  by 
his  father's  angry  frown  that  whatever  had 
happened  had  made  him  even  more  sullen 
and  uncommunicative  than  usual. 

The  man  sat  down  on  a  chair  by  the  cot- 
tage door,  and  lit  his  short  pipe,  remaining 
there  till  the  afternoon  shadows  had  fallen 


84  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

till  the  sun  had  set  in  a  blaze  of  ciimson 
and  gold  behind  the  red  stems  of  the  fir 
trees :  till  Robin,  tired,  had  come  in  from 
the  wood,  and  the  old  woman,  returned 
from  market,  had  cooked  and  set  on  the 
table  the  savory  supper.  By  the  time  the 
dish  was  empty,  and  Grip  was  enjoying  the 
bones  on  the  floor,  the  man's  face  had 
cleared  a  little  ;  and  as  soon  as  old  Sally  was 
gone,  Robin  ventured  to  ask  timidly  whether 
the  Squire  had  been  angry  about  the  hare. 

"  I  saw  nought  of  Squire,"  answered  the 
man,  "  and  I  hope  I  shall  never  see  his  face 
again,  or  I  shall  do  him  a  mischief.  No, 
boy,  'tis  not  the  hare,  but  I  tell  you  I'm 
turned  off,  I  that  have  been  on  the  land 
these  nine  years,  and  looked  to  end  my  days 
here." 

"Perhaps  if  you  asked  Squire,"  began 
Robin  ;  but  his  father  interrupted  him, 
bringing  his  heavy  fist  down  on  the  little 
table  before  him,  till  the  wood  almost 
cracked  with  the  stroke. 

"  Squire  is  off  to  foreign  parts,  gone  or 


NOT  AFRAID.  35 

going,  'tis  all  one ;  he  has  not  the  heart  of  a 
man  nor  the  courage  of  a  man  neither :  he 
turns  us  off  just  when  the  harvest  has  nigh 
failed,  and  bread  is  rose,  so  that  a  poor  man 
scarce  knows  the  comfort  of  a  full  meal. 
But  he  has  nought  to  say,  not  he,  to  the 
men  that  have  dug  and  ploughed  and  reaped 
for  him  till  all  the  best  of  their  strength  is» 
gone  ;  they  may  get  bread  where  they  can, 
or  starve  where  they  please,  while  he  makes 
his  good  corn-fields  into  pasture.  'Ask 
Squire,'  indeed :  he'd  take  no  heed  to  me ; 
but  he  shall  hear  me,  and  heed  me  too," 
cried  the  man,  fiercely. 

"Oh,  father,"  said  Robin,  creeping  nearer, 
until  he  could  lay  his  hand  on  his  father's 
knee,  "  don't  go  and  do  anything  wrong, 
please  don't.  We  can  live  here,  and  eat 
what  you  find  of  nights  ;  we  shan't  starve  ; 
though  I  wonder,"  thought  Robin,  "  whether 
that  is  stealing  too." 

"  We  must  turn  out  of  this  cottage,  come 
Tuesday.  Robin,  you  were  never  such  a 
fool  as  to  think  we  could  stay  here,  now 


86  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

I'm  iuined  off  the  land.  We  must  be  off 
on  our  travels,  lad,  like  Squire,  though  may 
be  'twill  be  no  farther  than  the  nighest 
work-house." 

"  Go  away  from  here  ?  "  cried  Robin,  in 
sudden  and  utter  dismay.  He  said  no  more, 
but  his  great  black  wondering  eyes  slowly 
filled  with  tears,  aud  he  crept  away  towards 
the  open  door,  longing  to  be  alone,  where  no 
one  would  hear  the  sobs  which  seemed  al- 
most to  choke  him  as  he  tried  to  keep  them 
back. 

Robin  ran  through  the  leafy  darkness  of 
the  wood  until  he  reached  a  spot  which  he 
knew  well,  a  soft  cushion  of  moss  covering 
the  roots  of  a  mighty  beech  tree,  and  there 
he  flung  himself  on  the  ground,  and  buried 
his  face  in  his  hands.  He  had  never  been  so 
miserable  before,  and  yet  he  scarcely  un- 
derstood the  cause  of  his  misery,  for  though 
he  could  say  over  and  over  to  himself,  "  We 
are  going  away,  going  away,"  yet  the  idea 
was  only  faintly  grasped  by  his  mind.  For 
as  Robin  had  never  known  any  other  home, 


NOT  AFRAID.  37 

scarcely  seen  any  place  beyond  the  wood  in 
which  his  days  were  passed,  so  the  thought 
of  going  into  the  unknown  distances  be- 
yond brought  with  it  nothing  but  a  vague 
cold  terror. 

How  he  loved  the  cottage  and  the  wood ! 
The  birds  would  come  next  spring,  and 
build  under  the  little  window,  and  some 
one  else  would  be  there,  who  would  perhaps 
break  the  eggs,  and  frighten  away  the  old 
birds.  The  little  squirrel  that  had  grown 
so  tame  that  it  would  come  down  the  tree 
when  Robin  called,  and  take  a  nut  from  his 
fingers,  would  forget  him,  and  grow  wild 
once  more,  or  perhaps  would  be  taken  and 
killed  by  Bob  Symonds,  or  some  other  cruel 
boy.  And  those  very  boys ;  he  remembered 
how  they  had  laughed  at  him,  and  called 
him  sneak  only  that  morning  (could  it  be 
that  morning?  it  seemed  so  long  ago)  ; 
they  would  never  know  now  that  he  was 
not  afraid.  Even  Jonas  would  think  him  a 
coward,  and  he  had  meant  to  do  some  very 
brave  thing,  that  would  show  them  that  it 


88  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

wasn't  fear  that  had  kept  him  from  stealing 
the  apples ;  and,  worst  of  all,  little  Lettice 
would  hear  what  they  said;  and  Robin 
sobbed  more  than  ever  as  lie  thought  of 
the  little  golden-haired  child  whom  he 
loved,  because  she  was  so  small  and  weak. 

Something  cold  touching  his  wet  cheek 
made  Robin  start  with  fear,  but  it  was  only 
Grip,  who  sat  down  whining  by  the  boy's 
side,  anxious  to  soothe  the  grief  which  dis- 
tressed him. 

4  We  are  going,  Grip,"  cried  Robin, 
throwing  both  his  arms  round  the  dog's 
neck,  "  but  we  won't  leave  you  behind ; 
you  shall  go  with  us.  Grip,  wherever  it  is." 

"Ay,  ay,  Grip  shall  go;"  and  Robin, 
looking  up  at  the  words,  saw  his  father 
standing  by  him.  He  jumped  up  quickly, 
uud  tried  to  brush  away  the  traces  of  tears. 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,"  said  the  man,  but  not 
in  an  unkind  tone.  "  The  world's  a  big 
place,  Robin.  You  are  young,  you'll  see 
many  a  spot  you'll  like  better  than  this 
wood;  'tis  different  for  me;  I  thought  to 


NOT  APBATO.  39 

end  my  days  here ;  but  'twill  all  go  to  one 
account.  Let  Squire  look  out,  I  say,"  and 
the  fierce  look  came  back. 

"  Please  don't  do  anything  wrong,"  plead- 
ed Robin  once  more. 

"Who  has  taught  you  anything  about 
right  and  wrong,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  " 
answered  the  father.  "  Never  you  mind  my 
concerns,  but  be  off  to  bed  with  you ;  'tis 
near  upon  eight  o'clock."  And  the  boy 
crept  off,  a  little  comforted  by  his  father's 
gentler  tone,  and  lay  down  to  forget  his 
griefs  in  the  sound  sleep  of  a  tired  child. 

Poor  Robin  I  he  did  not  yet  know  that  he 
had  a  Father  in  heaven  to  whom  he  might 
have  told  his  trouble :  that  there  was, 
stretched  out  even  over  him,  a  poor  igno- 
rant child,  the  Render  care  and  protection 
of  God  ;  that,  though  he  felt  so  lonely,  sob- 
bing himself  to  sleep  upon  his  pillow,  the 
heart  of  the  great  God  who  made  him  knew 
and  cared  for  his  sorrow. 


CHAPTER  III. 

WORLD  OUTSIDE  THE  WOOD. 


slept  late  the  next  morning, 
and  when  he  woke  it  was  with  a 
sense  that  something  strange  had 
happened,  though  he  could  not  at  first  re- 
member what  it  was.  As  recollection  came 
slowly  back  to  his  mind,  it  brought  with  it 
a  feeling  by  no  means  so  sad  as  that  which 
had  weighed  on  his  heart  as  he  lay  down  to 
sleep.  He  began  to  feel  something  like 
pleasure  at  the  idea  of  change,  and  his  busy 
thoughts  were  already  picturing  the  won- 
derful adventures  which  might  lie  for  him 
beyond  the  shadows  of  the  wood,  beyond 
the  village,  beyond  the  river  and  the  hills 

40 


THE  WORLD  OUTSIDE  THE  WOOD.       41 

behind,  which  up  to  this  time  had  bounded 
his  world.  He  felt  sure  his  father  would  be 
kinder  to  him ;  he  spoke  quite  gently  last 
night ;  and  perhaps  he  would  even  let  him 
go  to  school  and  learn,  when  once  he  was 
away  from  Bob  Symonds  and  the  other  boys 
of  the  village.  Then  he  would  soon  show 
if  he  were  a  dunce  ;  he  would  become  a 
great  scholar,  and  a  rich  man  perhaps,  and 
by-and-by  he  would  come  back ;  and  ho\v 
Jonas  and  the  rest  would  look  to  see  him 
going  in  fine  clothes,  like  a  gentleman,  to 
see  Lettice  and  her  mother. 

Busy  with  such  fancies,  Robin  dressed, 
and  went  down  the  ladder  staircase  to  the* 
little  kitchen.  His  father  was  not  there, 
and  Robin  saw  that  he  had  made  his  break 
fast  for  himself  before  he  went.  "  Fsthei 
is  right  kind,"  said  the  boy  to  himself,  "  he 
never  waked  me,  though  I  ought  to  havp 
been  up  this  two  hours.  I'll  look  sharp 
another  morning,  though," 

"  Poor  father,  he'll  be  lonesome  like  when 
he  is  turned  out  of  the  cottage,"  went  on 


42  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

Robin  to  himself,  as  he  ate  his  bread,  and 
drank  from  a  basin  of  milk  which  had  been 
left  for  him  on  the  table.  '*  I  mean  to  be 
good  to  him,  I  do ;  he  has  had  a  deal  to  put 
him  out,  and  I'm  the  only  one  he  has  got  to 
care  for  him,  except  old  Sally,  and  father 
don't  think  much  of  her.  I  wonder  if  Sally 
knows  we  are  going ;  it  will  take  a  deal  of 
breath  to  make  her  understand,  but  I'll  try, 
for  I  hear  her  coming  through  the  wood." 
But  though  the  footsteps  stopped  at  the 
cottage  door,  the  visitor  knocked,  instead 
of  lifting  the  latch,  as  the  old  woman  would 
have  done,  and  when  Robin  opened  it,  there 
stood  his  old  friend  the  packman,  stooping 
under  his  heavy  load. 

"  I  can  read  it  all  right  out,"  cried  Robin, 
without  stopping  for  a  word  of  greeting ; 
"  you  come  in  and  sit  down  and  hearken :  " 
and  before  the  astonished  visitor  had  under- 
stood the  meaning  of  this  unusual  greeting, 
the  boy  was  half-way  through  the  command- 
ments, which  he  read  in  a  loud,  unvarying 
voice,  that  showed  but  little  comprehension 
s>f  the  meaning  of  the  words  which  he  used. 


THE  WOULD  OUTSIDE  THE  WOOD.       43 

"Ay,  ay,  I'm  getting  hold  of  it  now," 
laid  his  friend,  when  Robin  stopped,  out 
of  breath,  but  with  a  look  of  triumph  and 
delight.  "  You  are  the  lad  I  gave  a  bit  of 
print  to  six  months  ago  come  Michaelmas. 
And  so  you've  learned  to  read  it.  Well 
done,  I  say ;  but  have  you  got  hold  of  the 
sense  of  the  words?  There's  more  in  them 
than  the  sound,  my  lad." 

"I  know  God  Almighty  wrote  them," 
said  the  boy,  "and  I  know  what  this 
means ; "  and  he  passed  his  finger  down 
the  page  until  he  had  found  the  eighth 
commandment,  and  held  it  before  the  man's 
eyes  as  he  went  on.  "  It  means  I  mustn't 
touch  Squire's  apples,  nor  old  Sally's  cab- 
bages ;  not  that  I  would  be  so  mean  as  to 
go  for  to  take  them,  but  she  will  have  it 
that  some  of  the  boys  do." 

"That's  well  enough,"  answered  the  pack- 
man, smiling.  "And  have  you  made  out 
any  of  the  others  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Robin,  "I  never  thought 
about  them.  "Do  they  all  say  there's 
something  I  mustn't  do  ?  " 


46  THE  FAITHFUL  8ON. 

ing  work ;  maybe  I  shall  be  gone  tw& 
maybe  best  part  of  a  week  ;  but  say  m  thing 
to  any  one,  except  that  I'm  off,  tramping 
high  and  low  for  work ;  and  you  need  not 
say  that  much  unless  they  come  asking  you. 
Folks  have  precious  little  business  of  their 
own  to  attend  to,  they  take  such  heed  of 
mine." 

Robin  would  have  liked  to  have  gone 
with  his  father ;  he  did  not  like  the  pros- 
pect of  the  loneliness  and  long  waiting; 
but  he  knew  his  father's  voice  and  manner 
so  well  as  to  be  quite  sore  that  just  now  it 
was  better  to  listen  in  silence.  But  when 
he  was  really  gone,  when  the  last  echo  of 
his  footsteps  had  died  away,  then  the  little 
boy  sat  on  the  floor  and  sobbed  aloud,  partly 
dreading  the  lonely  days  and  nights,  partly 
feeling  the  chill  of  disappointment  after  his 
awakened  hopes  of  a  happier  life. 

As  the  darkness  came  on,  bringing  with  it 
no  familiar  step,  no  voice  to  break  the  si- 
lence, Robin  thought  that  he  had  never 
been  so  lonely  before.  He  sat  with  his  arm 


THE  WORLD  OUTSIDE  THE  WOOD.       47 

round  Grip,  nestling  his  face  against  the 
dog's  close  black  curls,  to**  frightened  to 
dare  even  to  creep  to  his  little  bed  up-stairs. 
"  Oh,  Grip,  Grip !  how  I  do  wish  there  was 
any  one  to  take  care  of  us,"  he  said,  half 
aloud;  and  the  words  seemed  to  repeat 
themselves  over  again  in  the  silence,  with- 
out any  will  of  his  own.  Presently  they 
brought  some  other  words  with  them,  some 
words  he  must  surely  have  heard  some- 
where, or  how  should  they  ever  have  come 
into  his  mind  ?  —  "  Pray  God  take  care  of 
us  all  to-night."  Ah,  he  remembered  now 
where  he  had  heard  them.  Little  Lettice 
said  them  to  him  once ;  she  had  repeated  to 
him  her  evening  prayer,  and  asked  him  if 
he  would  not  like  to  learn  it,  and  he  had 
said,  "  No,  he  didn't  mind  about  it ;  "  for  at 
the  time  he  had  thought  that  prayers  were 
only  for  little  girls,  and  were  no  use  at  all  to 
strong  boys  of  twelve  who  could  take  care 
of  themselves. 

But  now  he  almost  wished  he  had  learnt 
the  prayer.     He   would  have  said  it,  and 


46  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

ing  work;  maybe  I  shall  be  gone  tw& 
maybe  best  part  of  a  week  ;  but  say  nc  thing 
to  any  one,  except  that  I'm  off,  tramping 
high  and  low  for  work  ;  and  you  need  not 
say  that  much  unless  they  come  asking  you. 
Folks  have  precious  little  business  of  their 
own  to  attend  to,  they  take  such  heed  of 
mine." 

Robin  would  have  liked  to  have  gone 
with  his  father ;  he  did  not  like  the  pros- 
pect of  the  loneliness  and  long  waiting; 
but  he  knew  his  father's  voice  and  manner 
so  well  as  to  be  quite  sure  that  just  now  it 
was  better  to  listen  in  silence.  But  when 
he  was  really  gone,  when  the  last  echo  of 
his  footsteps  had  died  away,  then  the  little 
boy  sat  on  the  floor  and  sobbed  aloud,  partly 
dreading  the  lonely  days  and  nights,  partly 
feeling  the  chill  of  disappointment  after  his 
awakened  hopes  of  a  happier  life. 

As  the  darkness  came  on,  bringing  with  it 
no  familiar  step,  no  voice  to  break  the  si- 
lence, Robin  thought  that  he  had  never 
been  so  lonely  before.  He  sat  with  his  arm 


THE  WOELD   OUTSIDE  THE   WOOD.        47 

round  Grip,  nestling  his  face  against  the 
dog's  close  black  curls,  to*>  frightened  to 
dare  even  to  creep  to  his  little  bed  up-stairs. 
"  Oh,  Grip,  Grip !  how  I  do  wish  there  was 
any  one  to  take  care  of  us,"  he  said,  half 
aloud;  and  the  words  seemed  to  repeat 
themselves  over  again  in  the  silence,  with- 
out any  will  of  his  own.  Presently  they 
brought  some  other  words  with  them,  some 
words  he  must  surely  have  heard  some- 
where, or  how  should  they  ever  have  come 
into  his  mind  ?  —  "  Pray  God  take  care  of 
us  all  to-night."  Ah,  he  remembered  now 
where  he  had  heard  them.  Little  Lettice 
said  them  to  him  once ;  she  had  repeated  to 
him  her  evening  prayer,  and  asked  him  if 
he  would  not  like  to  learn  it,  and  he  had 
said,  "  No,  he  didn't  mind  about  it ;  "  for  at 
the  time  he  had  thought  that  prayers  were 
only  for  little  girls,  and  were  no  use  at  all  to 
strong  boys  of  twelve  who  could  take  care 
of  themselves. 

But  now  he  almost  wished  he  had  learnt 
the  prayer.     He   would  have  said  it,  and 


48  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

perhaps  he  should  not  have  felt  so  much 
afraid  then ;  at  any  rate,  he  could  say  the 
words  he  knew,  and  perhaps  God  would 
hear  them,  and  not  let  any  one  find  out  that 
his  father  was  away,  and  come  and  frighten 
him. 

So  little  Robin  knelt,  with  his  arm  still 
round  the  dog,  and  said  in  a  low  whisper, 
"  Pray  God  take  care  of  Grip  and  me  to- 
night." It  was  his  first  prayer,  and  he 
scarcely  understood  why  he  said  it,  or  who 
it  was  that  would  hear  and  help  ;  but  yet  he 
felt  comforted  and  soothed,  and  with  his 
faithful  companion  for  a  pillow,  he  soon  fell 
asleep  on  the  cottage  floor,  and  did  not 
wake  till  the  bright  summer  sun  was  shin- 
ing full  through  the  uncurtained  window. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

FDRE  AT  THE  FABM. 

BEFORE  the  next  evening  came  Robin 
$  found  himself  wishing  many  a  time 
[••  T  •  that  some  of  the  boys  would  come  to 
the  cottage,  if  it  were  only  to  tease  him ;  it 
would  not  frighten  him  nearly  so  much  as 
this  long  loneliness ;  but  yet  when,  towards 
the  middle  of  the  night,  he  was  awakened 
by  sounds  of  feet  and  voices,  and  Grip's 
short,  uneasy  barks,  it  was  with  some  fear 
that  he  crept  across  the  floor  to  the  window, 
to  see  if  he  could  make  out  the  cause  of 
the  disturbance.  But  only  the  shadowy 
trees  moved  slowly  in  the  darkness,  though 
the  shouting  and  the  cries  grew  louder. 


50  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

Robin  drew  the  bolt  of  the  door,  and, 
calling  Grip  to  his  side,  ran  as  fast  as  he 
could  towards  the  place  whence  the  sounds 
seemed  to  come  —  the  Squire's  model  farm 
on  the  edge  of  the  wood.  The  narrow 
mossy  path,  dark  at  first,  grew  strangely 
distinct  as  he  hastened  on ;  and  presently, 
as  the  wind  waved  aside  the  branches  of 
the  trees,  he  saw  beyond  him  a  vivid  danc 
ing  light,  that  seemed  to  redden  all  the 
gloomy  sky.  There  must  be  a  fire  at  the 
farm,  thought  Robin  ;  but  as  he  came 
through  the  more  sparsely-planted  trees  to 
the  cleared  fields  he  saw  that  it  was  not 
the  farm,  but  the  newly-raised  stacks  of 
corn  which  were  blazing,  and  which  gave 
this  fierce  light.  Groups  of  laborers  were 
there,  hastily  wakened  from  their  heavy 
slumbers,  some  of  them  busy  enough  thi ow- 
ing buckets  of  water  on  the  blaze,  which 
seemed  to  lick  it  up,  and  next  moment  leap 
up  even  more  fiercely,  while  some  stood  a 
little  apart,  whispering  to  each  other,  and 
lent  no  hand  to  help.  A  sound  of  wheels 


FIRE  AT  THJS  FARM.  51 

and  horses'  feet,  and  the  little  engine  from 
the  Hall  came  up  at  full  speed.  Three 
stacks  at  least  were  on  fire,  but  there  were 
several  more  as  yet  untouched,  and  the 
chief  anxiety  was  to  save  these.  But  the 
hot  autumn  weather,  which  had  so  early 
dried  and  ripened  the  corn,  had  wasted  the 
water  in  the  little  springs  and  dried  up  the 
pools,  while  even  the  great  pond  at  the 
farm,  at  which  the  cattle  drank,  had  sunk 
down  till  you  saw  now  only  a  hollow  full 
of  wet  and  trodden  rnud.  Buckets  must  be 
passed  from  the  well,  which  was  at  least 
two  hundred  yards  distant,  and  the  bailiff 
and  the  village  constable  called  on  every 
one  present,  men  and  boys,  to  form  a  long 
line,  and  pass  on  the  buckets  from  one  to 
another. 

Robin  pressed  forward,  eager  to  show  that 
he  was  not  too  small  to  be  of  use,  and  too 
full  of  wonder,  dismay,  and  interest  at  the 
new  scene,  to  notice  the  strange  glances 
which  were  cast  on  him  by  the  other  help- 
ers. But  no  sooner  had  he  taken  his  place 


52  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

than  he  felt  a  strong  hand  on  his  collar,  and 
found  himself  pulled  violently  aside  by  the 
Squire's  bailiff — the  man  of  all  others  whom 
Robin  had  been  taught  most  to  dislike  and 
dread.  He  looked  up  in  terror  as  his  cap- 
tor shook  him  angrily,  and  calling  to  the 
constable,  said,  "  Here,  lock  this  chap  up  till 
the  fire's  out,  and  then  bring  him  up  to  me." 
Robin's  thoughts  flew  at  once  to  the  apples ; 
could  the  other  boys  have  taken  them,  and 
was  he  suspected  after  all?  u  Oh,  indeed, 
indeed,  mister !  "  he  cried,  as  the  constable 
dragged  him  away,  "  I  didn't  go  near  the 
apples,  I  never  so  much  as  touched  one." 
The  constable  was  far  too  anxious  to  get 
back  to  trouble  himself  to  answer.  He 
dragged  Robin  after  him  to  his  own  cottage, 
and  bidding  his  wife  look  to  the  boy,  for  the 
bailiff  must  have  speech  of  him  in  the  morn- 
ing, he  hurried  away ;  while  the  woman, 
anxious  to  see  what  was  going  on,  locked 
Robin  securely  in  the  little  empty  tool- 
house,  and  followed  her  husband  to  the 
scene  of  the  fire. 


FIRE  AT  THE  FABM.  53 

To  the  poor  boy,  frightened  and  miser- 
able, it  seemed  a  very,  very  long  time  be- 
fore mcrning  came ;  and  when  the  door  was 
opened  at  last,  he  had  to  cover  his  dazzled 
eyes  before  he  could  at  all  make  out  the 
figure  of  the  constable,  who  stood  in  the 
doorway,  a  dark  form  against  the  vivid 
morning  light.  To  Robin,  this  man,  famil- 
iarly known  as  Nathan  Roberts,  had  never 
seemed  before  at  all  formidable ;  he  had 
thought  of  him  as  a  rather  soft,  good-tem- 
pered man,  who  was  accustomed  to  be  verr 
meek  and  respectful  in  the  presence  of  1m 
tall  loud-voiced  "missus,"  and  to  assert 
himself  now  and  then  by  collaring  and 
shaking  a  boy  who  was  caught  birds'-nest- 
ing,  or  who  was  looking  over  the  hedge 
at  his  neighbor's  fruit.  But  now  Robin 
looked  at  him  with  awe  and  shrinking,  for 
he  represented  in  some  manner  that  un- 
known terrible  law,  into  the  hands  of  which 
Robin  felt  that  he  had  fallen.  Yet  the  con- 
stable's appearance  was  even  less  impressive 
than  usual,  for  his  hurried  wash  had  by  no 


54  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

means  removed  the  black  traces  of  the  fire 
on  face  and  garments,  and  he  looked  jaded 
and  tired  after  his  last  night's  anxiety  and 
work. 

"  Come  out  and  behave  yourself,"  he  said ; 
"you'll  catch  it  this  time,  you  will,  you 
young  rascal." 

Robin  crawled  out  into  the  sunshine, 
downcast  and  miserable,  a  state  of  mind 
in  no  way  improved  by  his  being  immedi- 
ately collared  by  the  constable's  wife,  and 
dragged  to  the  side  of  a  gig,  in  which  sat 
the  Squire's  bailiff. 

"That's  the  boy,  is  it,  Mrs.  Roberts? 
He  looks  bad  enough  and  daring  enough 
for  anything,"  remarked  the  bailiff,  as  he 
glanced  at  Robin,  who  with  sullen,  down- 
cast look,  was  trying  hard  to  wriggle  him- 
self free  from  the  woman's  rough  grasp. 

"  That's  the  boy,  Mr.  Pierson,  sir ;  and 
to  my  thinking  he's  at  the  bottom  of  the 
whole  mischief;  for  a  more  ill-conditioned 
heathen  of  a  boy  I  never  saw  in  all  my 
born  days,"  giving  him  a  shake  as  she 


Robin  in  Trouble.  —  Page  54. 


FIRE  AT  THE  FABM.  55 

"Nay,  nay,  wife,"  said  the  sonstable, 
mildly,  shaking  his  head,  "  I  know  nothing 
so  bad  of  the  boy  ;  but  he's  had  bad  train- 
ing and  bad  example,  sir,"  (appealing  to 
Mr.  Pierson),  "and  what's  bred  in  the 
bone,  you  know — " 

"  '  You  know,'  indeed,"  interrupted  Mrs. 
Roberts.  "  I  wonder  you've  the  face  to  go 
on  talking,  I  do  ;  and  you  that  let  the  man 
get  away  when  you  had  your  hand  on  his 
very  collar.  The  men  are  but  poor  things, 
sir;  if  they'd  make  the  women  constables, 
'tis  not  much  you'd  hear  of  rick-burning, 
I  can  tell  you." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  you  'would  make  a  good 
one,  Mrs.  Roberts,"  said  the  bailiff,  laugh- 
ing. "  But  come,  my  man,  hand  the  boy 
up  here,  and  get  in  yourself;  I  shall  want 
you  to  give  your  account  of  the  matter 
to  Squire  Bevan.  We  shall  just  be  in 
time  to  see  him  after  his  breakfast ;  "  and 
touching  his  horse  with  the  end  of  his  lash, 
they  had  soon  left  the  village  far  behind. 

It  was  like  a  distant  journey  to  Robin; 


56  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

he  had  never  before  been  so  far  from  his 
home :  for  Squire  Bevan  lived  five  miles 
off,  though  he  was  the  nearest  magistrate, 
now  that  their  own  Squire  was  abroad. 
The  boy  would  have  enjoyed  this  new  way 
of  travelling,  for  he  had  never  ridden  be- 
fore, except  on  the  heavy  trunks  of  the 
trees  as  they  were  dragged  by  the  slow 
horses  from  the  wood  ;  but  he  was  faint  for 
want  of  food,  and,  for  all  his  sullen  air,  his 
heart  was  beating  with  terror  at  the  thought 
of  Squire  Bevan.  He  should  be  sent  to 
jail,  perhaps,  or  beyond  seas  (for  he  had  a 
very  vague  idea  of  the  power  of  a  Squire), 
and  never  see  Grip,  or  his  father,  or  little 
Lettice,  or  old  Sally,  any  more. 

Squire  Bevan  was  seated  in  his  library, 
wearing  a  gorgeous  dressing-gown,  which 
Robin  looked  on  as  probably  his  robe  of 
office,  and  which  gave  an  additional  solem- 
nity to  his  feelings,  as,  closely  guarded  by 
the  constable,  he  stood  before  him. 

The  bailiff  was  speaking  very  fast,  and 
Robin  could  understand  a  little  of  the 


FIRE  AT   THE  FABM  57 

meaning  of  what  he  said ;  but  he  soon 
found  out  that  he  was  suspected  of  being 
concerned,  not  in  the  theft  of  the  apples, 
but  in  the  fire. 

"  And  you  are  certain  it  was  the  boy's 
father  who  fired  the  ricks?"  asked  Mr. 
Bevan  of  the  constable. 

"Certain  sure,  Squire,"  answered  the 
constable.  "  The  way  of  it  was  this.  I 
was  looking  round  before  I  turned  in — it 
might  be  about  eleven,  or  it  might  be  half 
after  —  and  I  saw  a  light  no  bigger  than  a 
lucifer  match  a-moving  among  the  ricks. 
Thinks  I,  *  My  fine  fellow,  don't  you  make 
too  sure  ;  I'll  be  even  with  you ; '  for  what 
with  the  Squire's  going  to  foreign  parts, 
and  what  with  the  men  being  turned  off 
the  land,  there  had  been  many  an  angry 
word  spoke,  and  I  guessed  the  meaning  of 
the  light  the  minute  I  clapped  eyes  on  it." 

"  Go  on,  constable,"  said  Mr.  Bevan,  as 
the  man  paused  to  give  the  magistrate  an 
opportunity  of  being  duly  impressed  with 
the  unusual  sagacity  of  the  Wareham  con- 
stable. 


58  THE  PAITHFITL  SON. 

"Well,  Squire,"  in  the  slightly  injured 
tone  of  unappreciated  merit,  "  so  I  stole  as 
soft  as  might  be  round  one  of  the  ricks,  and 
came  right  on  my  man,  just  as  he  was  for 
putting  his  match  into  the  corn.  There  was 
some  loose  straw  made  a  blaze,  and  I  saw 
his  face  as  plain  as  I  see  yours,  and  it  was 
Wallack,  this  boy's  father  —  a  well-known 
man  he  is  for  poaching  and  setting  lines  in 
the  water,  and  one  of  the  very  men  the 
Squire  had  turned  off." 

"Now,  constable,  be  very  sure  of  what 
you  say  ;  you  have  no  doubt  whatever  that 
you  recognized  this  man  ?  Remember,  arson 
is  a  serious  matter." 

"  I  tell  you,  sir,"  answered  Nathan,  earn- 
estly, "  I  see  him  as  plain  and  as  nigh  as  I 
see  you ;  and  I  had  another  token  that  it 
was  Wallack,  though  none  was  needed ;  for 
no  sooner  did  I  put  my  hand  on  his  collar, 
to  arrest  him,  sir,  as  was  my  bounden  duty 
as  a  constable  and  a  man,  but  he  gets  hold 
of  me,  twists  his  foot  round  in  some  fashion 
that  he  learnt  in  Cornish  parts,  they  tell  me, 


FIRE  AT  THE  FARM.  59 

for  he  is  a  foreigner  is  Wallack,  and  was 
off,  leaving  me  down  on  the  heap  of  straw, 
and  the  rick  all  of  a  blaze." 

"  And  this  boy  was  with  his  father,  I 
suppose  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say  I  saw  him,  sir,"  said  the 
constable,  "but  he  might  have  been,  like 
enough." 

"I  saw  him  myself  busy  enough  at  the 
fire  a  few  hours  after,"  said  Mr.  Pierson. 
"  I  warrant  you  he  knows  where  his  father 
is  now." 

"Listen  to  me,  my  boy,"  said  Mr.  Bevan, 
for  the  first  time  speaking  to  Robin,  who 
was  looking  down  on  the  floor  uneasily,  and 
shifting  from  one  foot  to  the  other,  "and 
be  sure  you  speak  the  truth." 

Robin  lifted  his  eyes  from  the  carpet,  and 
looked  the  magistrate  full  in  the  face,  but 
he  did  not  speak. 

"  Where  is  your  father  now  ? " 

"  Tramping  high  and  low  for  work,"  re- 
plied Robin,  using  the  very  words  in  which 
he  had  been  bidden  to  answer  any  questions. 


60  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

"How  long  has  he  been  gone?" 

"Since  Thursday  noon,"  said  the  boy;'1 
'*  and  I've  spoke  the  truth,  as  you  bid  me, 
but  I'm  not  to  say  one  word  more." 

"  Do  you  know  who  you  are  speaking  to, 
boy?"  said  Mr.  Pierson,  angrily.  "Bring 
none  of  your  impertinence  here,  or  it  will 
be  all  the  worse  for  you." 

"Father  said,"  continued  Robin,  looking 
at  Mr.  Bevan,  and  not  at  the  bailiff,  "as  I 
was  to  say  no  more  than  he  was  gone  on 
tramp  for  work ;  and  I'm  bound  to  do  as 
he  tells  me,  sir." 

"I'll  soon  find  a  way  to  cure  his  obsti- 
nacy, sir,  if  you'll  allow  me  to  deal  with 
him,"  said  Mr.  Pierson.  "Another  night 
in  Nathan's  tool-house  will  make  him  change 
his  tone,  I'll  warrant." 

"  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Pierson,"  said  the  mag- 
istrate, in  a  somewhat  constrained  voice, 
"the  case  is  in  my  hands.  I  shall  know 
how  to  deal  with  it." 

"No  one  better,"  replied  Mr.  Pierson, 
turning  aside  to  hide  his  look  of  annoyance 


FIRE  AT  THE  FAEM.  61 

at  the  rebuke,  and  adding  this  to  his  causes 
of  offence  against  Robin,  whom  he  already 
disliked  as  the  son  of  the  man  whose  act 
was  sure  to  bring  him  into  disgrace  with 
his  employer. 

"This  boy,"  said  the  Squire,  "is  too 
young,  and  evidently  too  ignorant  to  be 
subpoenaed  as  a  witness,  and  there  is  no 
pretence  for  putting  him  in  confinement,  as 
he  does  not  appear  to  have  been  present 
when  his  father  committed  this  crime.  We 
have  no  alternative  but  to  dismiss  him. 
Boy,  you  are  at  liberty  —  you  can  go." 

Robin  made  a  sort  of  duck  with  his  head 
to  serve  as  a  bow,  and  was  backing  towards 
the  door,  too  confused  and  helpless  even  to 
wonder  where  he  was  to  go ;  but  before  he 
reached  it,  faint  with  want  of  food,  and 
dizzy  with  fear  and  suspense,  he  turned 
very  white,  and  would  have  fallen  had  not 
Nathan  grasped  his  arm. 

The  Squire  seemed  to  understand  the 
case  at  once.  "Carry  him  to  the  servant's 
hall,  constable,  and  tell  them  to  give  him  a 
good  breakfast  of  bread  and  meat." 


62  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

Some  hours  after,  when  Mr.  Pierson  had 
long  since  driven  away,  carrying  Nathan  in 
his  gig,  Robin  was  summoned  once  more 
into  the  Squire's  presence.  He  was  no 
longer  faint  and  hungry,  and  felt  much 
bolder  as  the  gentleman  beckoned  to  him 
to  come  and  stand  beside  his  chair. 

"  My  boy,"  said  his  new  friend,  in  grave 
but  not  unkindly  tones,  "I  do  not  blame 
you  for  being  silent  about  your  fathei  ;  but 
tell  me,  are  you  always  as  careful  to  obey 
the  words  of  your  Father  in  heaven  >  " 

Robin  looked  at  his  questioner  in  puzzled 
silence,  the  words  were  too  strange  to  hav« 
any  meaning  for  him. 

"  Do  you  try  to  obey  God  as  well  as  your 
father?" 

This  time  he  understood,  and  the  answer 
came  readily.  "  I  know  that  God  said  on 
the  paper  that  I  was  to  honor  my  father, 
and  that  was  why  I  wouldn't  tell  any  more 
than  he  bid  me." 

"  Then,  my  boy,  you  have  learnt  the  first 
lesson  of  life  —  obedience  —  because  God 


P1BE  AT   THE  FABM.  63 

tells  us  to  obey;  but  perhaps  you  have 
found  out  too  that  it  is  sometimes  very 
difficult  to  do  just  what  God  tells  us  ?  " 

"  Ay,"  said  Robin,  with  an  emphatic  nod 
of  his  head;  "and  sometimes  folks  over- 
persuade  one,  and  it  looks  as  if  it  would  be 
so  nice,  sir." 

"  Indeed  it  does,"  replied  Mr.  Bevan, 
gently.  "  And  God  knows  exactly  how  we 
feel,  and  how  weak  we  are :  and  if  He  sees 
any  one  really  trying  to  do  what  is  right, 
because*  He  has  bidden  them,  then  He  is 
sure  to  help.  He  makes  us  stronger,  so 
that  we  are  able  to  turn  away  from  the 
wrong  thing  that  looks  so  nice,  and  not  to 
listen  when  other  people  would  over-per- 
suade us.  You  must  speak  to  God  in  your 
heart,  my  boy,  when  you  find  it  hard  to 
obey  Him." 

"  I  did  say  would  He  take  care  of  me 
when  father  left  me  all  alone ;  and  I  think 
He  heard,  for  I  wasn't  frightened  any  more," 
said  Robin. 

"Speak    to    God    very  often,    my    boy. 


64  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

And  now  I  cannot  talk  to  you  any  more, 
but  I  will  give  you  a  little  Testament  of 
your  own.  That  is  a  book  in  which  God 
speaks  to  us,  and  tells  us  how  He  loves  us; " 
and  Mr.  Be  van  took  down  a  little  square 
book  in  plain  strong  binding,  which  he  put 
into  Robin's  hands.  The  boy  had  no  words 
in  which  to  speak  his  thanks,  but  the 
sudden  color  in  his  brown  cheeks,  and  the 
light  in  his  eyes,  told  of  his  eager  gladness, 
as  he  took  the  book  carefully  and  rever- 
ently, and  folded  it  under  his  jacket.  And 
it  was  not  till  he  had  walked  some  distance 
from  the  Hall  that  he  remembered  how 
lonely  and  desolate  he  was,  his  father  away 
in  some  distant  place,  afraid  to  come  home, 
lest  he  should  be  taken,  and  he  himself  sus- 
pected by  every  one,  and  almost  friendless 
and  unknown,  even  in  his  own  village.  But 
the  child's  heart  grew  very  heavy  as  he 
crept  along  the  dreary  miles  of  road  towards 
his  own  empty  cottage. 


CHAPTER  V. 

BY  THE  BIVBE  SIDE. 

8BOUT  noon  on  the  24th  of  Decem- 
ber, two  travellers,  who  looked  both 
footsore  and  cold,  were  entering 
London  by  one  of  the  main  roads  along 
which  fifty  years  ago  the  mail  coaches  used 
to  run. 

One  of  the  travellers  was  evidently  a 
peddler,  for  he  carried  a  large  pack  on  his 
shoulders,  while  lagging  behind  the  long 
steps  of  his  companion  was  a  boy  with 
brown  face  and  tangled  black  hair,  whom 
we  last  saw  three  months  ago  creeping 
towards  his  empty  cottage.  I  said  "two 
travellers,"  but  presently,  at  a  whistle  from 

65 


66  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

the  boy,  a  large  black  dog  sprang  over  the 
hedge,  and  putting  his  nose  to  his  master's 
hand,  in  sign  of  greeting,  trotted  on  steadily 
by  his  side. 

"  Beat  at  last,  are  you,  Robin  ?  "  said  the 
packman,  looking  round.  "  Well,  I  must 
say  you've  kept  up  like  a  man ;  you  never 
did  such  a  spell  of  walking  in  your  life  be- 
fore, I'll  warrant.  But  we'll  soon  be  in 
good  quarters.  Hold  up,  bo}r,  else  I'll  have 
my  brother  saying  'tis  but  a  bad  bargain 
I've  brought  him." 

"  I'm  not  beat,"  said  the  boy,  straighten- 
ing himself,  and  pressing  forward  to  his 
companion's  side;  "but  it's  such  a  big 
place,  and  I'm  getting  afraid  Mr.  Barnaby 
shouldn't  like  Grip  and  me." 

"  Hallo  I  I  declare,  that  beats  all,"  cried 
the  peddler,  suddenly ;  "  there's  Jacob  him- 
self. There  never  was  such  a  place  as 
London  for  meeting  folks  as  well  as  losing 
them  ;  "  and  he  hurried  over  to  the  opposite 
side  of  the  street,  where  stood  a  little  wiry 
old  man  in  patched,  faded  garments,  of  a 


BY  THE  BIVEB  SIDE.  67 

make  which,  added  to  his  sou'-wester,  gave 
him  a  sea-going  air,  quite  out  of  character 
with  the  narrow  London  street  in  which  ho 
stood. 

"  Well  met,  brother  Jacob ;  you're  a  good 
sight  for  sore  eyes,"  said  the  peddler, 
heartily,  clapping  the  old  man  on  the 
shoulder. 

"  Humph,"  answered  the  other,  in  a  sharp 
tone,  which  made  Robin  try  to  shrink  out 
of  sight  behind  his  friend;  "you're  no 
younger  and  no  handsomer  than  you  were 
when  I  saw  you  last." 

"  Three  years'  walking  about  in  all  weath- 
ers don't  improve  a  man's  complexion,  and 
I  was  never  much  to  boast  of,"  said  the 
other,  cheerily. 

"  I  hate  to  hear  a  fellow  undervally  him- 
self," replied  the  old  man.  "  Did  you  make 
your  own  face,  that  you're  so  modest  about 
your  looks  ?  " 

"  Well,  well,"  returned  the  peddler, 
laughing,  "  you're  not  changed,  anyways, 
Jacob ;  and,  talking  about  handaome  looks, 


68  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

what  do  you  say  to  this  fine  fellow  ?  Grip 
his  name  is  ;  you'll  not  see  his  pattern  on 
this  side  the  river." 

"  I  don't  go  much  by  looks  myself," 
grunted  the  old  man,  though  in  a  more 
complacent  tone.  "  And  that's  the  boy,  I 
suppose.  Well,  young  fellow,  I  can  tell 
you  'tis  a  good  thing  for  you  that  I  don't 
go  by  looks  ;  I  must  have  a  good  word  with 
you.  Come  along,  brother,  the  Nicholas  is 
moored  close  alongside  here  ;  "  and  the  sail- 
or, for  such  he  seemed,  said  not  another 
word  as  he  led  the  party  through  many 
a  narrow  street  and  turning,  until  they 
reached  the  river  side,  near  which  were 
moored  many  of  those  flat  boats  or  lighters 
in  which  goods  are  carried  out  to  the  larger 
ships,  nearer  the  mouth  of  the  river. 
Across  more  than  one  plank,  laid  from 
boat  to  boat,  Robin  followed  his  conduc- 
tors, and  at  last  stood  on  the  deck  of  the 
Nicholas,  of  which  his  new  acquaintance 
was  owner  and  captain.  A  short  ladder 
led  into  a  tiny  cabin,  round  which  Robin 


BY  THE  RIVER  SIDE.  69 

gazed  with  wondering  eyes,  for  the  walla 
were  almost  covered  with  strange  objects, 
the  nature  of  which  he  could  only  guess. 
Two  or  three  dried  skins  of  creatures  such 
as  the  boy  had  never  seen,  gleaming  pearly 
shells,  and  bottles  which  contained  snakes 
covered  with  wonderful  markings  :  while  on 
one  side  a  little  model  of  a  canoe  was  nailed 
upon  the  wall  close  to  a  polished  spear-head 
glistening  with  rows  of  dangerous  teeth. 
The  old  man  was  a  favorite  amongst  the 
sailors,  and  when  they  came  into  port  from 
their  long  voyages,  many  a  one  would  bring 
him  some  little  gift  from  the  foreign  lands 
which  they  had  visited,  to  adorn  his  cabin 
walls. 

Jacob  Barnaby  seated  himself  on  a  bench 
which  was  fastened  to  the  wall,  and  signing 
to  his  brother  to  do  the  same,  he  called 
Robin  to  stand  before  him.  "  Now,  boy," 
he  said  "  you  must  speak  up  and  answer 
what  I  ask  you.  I've  heard  summat  of 
you,  but  it  was  in  a  letter,  and  I've  not 
much  patience  to  make  them  out.  I  know 


70  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

about  your  father,  and  how  you  were  left 
alone ;  you  need  not  tell  me  that,"  he  con- 
tinued, with  a  real  kindness,  which  showed 
that  a  warm  heart  lay  hidden  under  the 
rough  manner.  "  The  bailiff  locked  up  the 
cottage,  and  took  the  bits  of  sticks  for  the 
rent,  and  turned  you  adrift.  I  know  that 
much  ;  what  came  next  ?  " 

"I  went  to  look  for  father,"  said  Robin, 
"  but  I  never  found  him  ;  and  I  should  have 
been  starved  many  a  time,  but  folks  were 
good  to  me,  and  gave  me  a  drink  of  milk, 
or  a  bit  of  their  own  dinner  of  bread  and 
cheese,  and  at  night  I  slept  under  a  hay- 
rick, when  I  could  find  one.  But  one  day 
I  hadn't  had  a  morsel  since  the  night  be- 
fore, and  when  evening  came  I  was  nigh 
worn  out,  and  I  dropped  down  by  the  road- 
side in  a  sleep  or  a  faint ;  and  when  I  came 
to  myself  I  was  in  a  warm  house,  and  he," 
pointing  to  the  peddler,  "  was  giving  me 
some  hot  tea  to  drink." 

"And  a  long  time  you  were  coming  to," 
interrupted  the  peddler.  "I  began  to  have 


BY  THE  EIVTEB  SIDE.  71 

my  doubts  if  I  hadn't  found  him  too  late, 
I  can  tell  you,  brother  Jacob." 

"And  he  said,"  went  on  Robin,  pres- 
ently, "would  I  sell  my  dog?  for  he  had 
a  brother  in  London  wanted  one  like  Grip, 
to  look  after  his  place  when  he  was  away ; 
but  I  couldn't ; "  and  the  tears  came  into 
the  boy's  eyes.  "I  had  no  one  else  but 
Grip,  and  indeed,  sir,  he  wouldn't  have 
liked  to  go  away  ;  he's  used  to  me,  you  see. 
And  then  he  said  maybe  if  I  behaved  my- 
self you  would  take  me  with  the  dog,  and 
so  I  came  along  with  him  to  London ;  and, 
master,  do  please  take  us  both.  I'll  do  my 
best  to  learn  all  you  tell  me,  and  I  won't  eat 
much,  I  promise  you." 

A  queer  twinkle  came  into  the  old  man's 
eyes. 

"  Well,  well,  boy,  we'll  see  about  it.  You 
shall  stay  here  a  bit,  any  way,  till  I've  had 
a  look  at  the  dog.  And  now  there's  nothing 
going  on  to-day,  you  may  be  off  on  shore, 
and  look  at  the  shops,  and  what  not. 
There's  a  deal  of  holly  in  the  windows,  and 


72  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

plums  and  candy  for  the  puddings.  You 
go  and  look  at  them.  Or,  stay  I  Do  you 
see  that  church  ?  "  and  Jacob  pointed  to  an 
old  gray  tower,  which  seemed  to  rise  close 
to  the  water  side.  "  Steer  for  that  tower ; 
you'll  find  my  lad  Nicholas  in  the  church  ; 
you  can  tell  him  I  sent  you." 

"And  bring  him  back  with  you  to  see 
his  uncle,"  cried  the  peddler,  as  Robin 
turned  to  go.  "He'll  have  grown  a  little 
stronger  in  these  three  years?"  he  con- 
tinued, looking  questioningly  at  Jacob  as 
he  spoke. 

"He's  an  active  chap  is  Nicholas.  He 
gets  about  so  quick  with  his  crutch,  you'd 
never  think  he  was  lame.  'Tis  a  wonder 
he's  not  spoiled,  the  gentry  make  so  much 
of  his  fine  .music ;  but  he  is  a  good  boy,  and 
the  comfort  of  my  life  since  his  poor  mother 
died.  Hallo !  "  with  a  sudden  change  of 
tone ;  "  be  off,  boy,  or  you'll  not  find  him 
in  the  church ;  'tis  getting  late." 

Robin  saw  that  the  two  men  wanted  to 
be  alone,  and  he  was  obliged  to  go,  though 


BY  THE  EIVER   SIDE.  73 

he  was  afraid  to  venture  alone  into  those 
strange  streets;  but  soon  all  fear  was  for- 
gotten in  wonder  at  the  new  sights  which 
everywhere  met  his  eye  —  greatest  wonder 
of  all,  the  crowds  of  people  that  passed 
continually  up  and  down  the  narrow  streets. 
He  stood  still  to  gaze  at  them,  and  decided 
that  there  must  be  some  wonderful  show 
near  at  hand,  to  which  all  these  people  were 
crowding.  Robin  found  himself,  after  a 
time,  at  the  closed  doors  of  the  old  gray 
church,  and  he  was  going  to  sit  down  on 
one  of  the  long  stone  steps  which  led  up  to 
the  porch,  to  wait  till  Nicholas  should  come 
out,  when  he  noticed  that  there  was  a  nar- 
row alley  running  down  one  side  of  the 
building,  and  in  this  he  found  a  small  door, 
which  was  not  fastened,  but  yielded  to  his 
first  timid  push.  It  was  not  very  cold 
weather  for  Christmas,  but  as  the  boy 
stepped  into  the  dim  light  of  the  lofty, 
silent  church,  a  strange  chill  passed  over 
him. 

Inside  were  no  bright  holly-berries,  no 


74  THE  FAITHFUL  SOU. 

shining  laurel.  The  old  city  church  held 
on  Sundays  a  mixed  congregation  of  sailors 
and  a  very  miscellaneous  water-side  popu- 
lation, and  no  one  had  ever  thought  of 
dressing  the  old  oak  pews  for  Christmas. 
The  windows  were  crusted  with  dust  and 
smoke,  and  Robin,  whose  only  experience 
of  churches  was  of  the  pretty  country  ones 
to  which  the  peddler  had  sometimes  taken 
him  on  their  long  slow  journey  to  London, 
thought  this  a  very  dreary  place  in  which  to 
worship  God. 

But  presently  low  sweet  notes  echoed 
through  the  building,  so  soft,  so  tender, 
they  spoke  to  the  heart  like  the  remem- 
brance of  a  dear  voice  that  has  been  long 
silent;  now  louder  tones,  thrilling  with  pas- 
sionate feeling,  as  the  organ  answered  to 
every  touch  of  the  fingers  that  were  laid 
on  it.  Robin  forgot  his  errand,  he  forgot 
everything  but  the  music,  as  he  crept  nearer 
to  the  wonderful  sound,  and  sat  down,  quite 
unconscious  even  of  his  own  movements,  at 
the  foot  of  the  narrow  stairs  leading  to  the 


BY  THE  BIVEE  SIDE.  75 

organ-loft.  How  long  he  sat  he  did  not 
know.  He  did  not  seem  to  himself  to  be 
listening  to  the  music ;  rather  his  thoughts 
were  gone  back  to  his  old  life,  to  his  father, 
to  his  sorrow  at  being  parted  from  him,  to 
his  fear  lest  he  should  be  even  now  longing 
for  the  little  boy  who  could  not  come  to 
him  (for  Robin  never  believed  that  his  father 
had  left  him  willingly),  to  all  his  new  de- 
sires after  a  better  life,  his  new  conscious- 
ness of  his  own  weakness.  He  could  not 
separate  and  understand  his  own  thoughts 
any  more  than  he  could  detect  the  several 
notes  which  formed  the  cadence  that  he 
heard ;  but  longing  and  sorrow  and  gladness 
and  hope  were  all  blended  together,  till  the 
boy  could  bear  no  more,  and  bending  his 
head  over  his  knees,  burst  into  sudden  tears. 
He  did  not  hear  the  music  cease,  nor  the 
sound  of  a  crutch  on  the  stairs  above  him  ; 
but  presently  he  felt  the  touch  of  a  hand 
on  his  shoulder,  and  a  gentle  voice  said, 
"  Do  tell  me  what  is  the  matter ;  why  do 
you  cry  so?" 


76  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

"  Because  I  want  to  be  a  better  boy,  and 
I  don't  know  how,  and  father  is  gone  away." 
Robin  had  not  thought  the;  words  before  he 
said  them,  he  scarcely  knew  indeed  why  he 
did  cry,  nor  what  had  wakened  in  his  heart 
the  yearning  desire  for  which  he  was  trying 
to  find  words ;  but  it  had  been  growing  in 
him  day  by  day,  as  the  new  sorrow  and  the 
new  tenderness  which  had  entered  his  life 
had  brought  with  them  strange  feelings  and 
desires.  God  in  His  love  and  goodness  had 
sown  a  seed  in  the  boy's  heart,  and  what  he 
felt  was  the  awakening  into  life  and  growth 
of  this  power  within'  him. 

His  new  friend  sat  down  on  the  stairs  by 
Robin,  and  put  his  arm  round  his  shoulders. 
"  Tell  me  more  about  it,"  he  said  gently. 

Both  touch  and  words  were  a  new  ex- 
perience to  the  lonely  boy  ;  so  few  had  ever 
cared  to  speak  kindly  to  him  ;  none  before 
had  seemed  to  wish  to  win  his  confidence  ; 
and  this  was  a  boy  too,  like  himself,  for  the 
slight  figure  and  colorless  face  of  the  crip- 
pled lad  made  him  seem  much  younger  than 


BY  THE  RIVER   SIDE.  77 

he  really  was.  Robin  was  naturally  a  very 
open-hearted  boy,  but  he  was  so  unaccus- 
tomed to  talk  or  even  to  think  of  his  own 
feelings,  that  it  was  some  time  before  he 
found  any  words  in  which  to  answer. 

"  How  did  you  come  in  here  ?  "  asked  the 
crippled  lad,  presently,  finding  that  his  new 
acquaintance  did  not  speak. 

"  At  yon  small  door,"  replied  Robin, 
readily.  "  Your  father  said  as  I  should  find 
you  here.  I'm  Robin  Wallack,  the  boy  that 
was  to  come  along  of  the  dog." 

"I'm  so  glad  it's  you,"  said  Nicholas; 
"for  I  think  we  shall  be  friends.  And 
haven't  you  heard  of  your  father  all  this 
time  ?  Poor  Robin !  I'm  so  sorry  for  you." 

"  You  see,"  said  Robin,  confidentially,  "  I 
know  a  deal  more  now  than  I  did  when  I 
lived  along  with  father;  your  uncle  have 
learnt  me  a  many  things  ;  and  times  I  think, 
if  I'd  been  a  better  boy,  father  wouldn't 
have  gone ;  and  I  don't  think  father  ever 
knew  much  about  God,  or  he  wouldn't  have 
done  what  he  did ;  and  I  want  to  go  and  telj 


78  THE   FAITHFUL  SON. 

him.     I  think  it  would  make  him  sorry.     1 
know  it  did  me." 

"  Perhaps  by-and-by  God  will  bring  your 
father  back,"  said  Nicholas,  gently ;  "  and 
though  you  don't  know  where  he  is,  God 
knows.  Perhaps  He  is  teaching  him  too." 

"  But  I  want  to  see  him.  I  had  always 
lived  along  of  him,  you  know,  and  he  was 
very  good  to  me,  was  father ; "  for  Robin's 
loving  little  heart  had  already  forgotten 
everything  but  the  occasional  kindly  moods 
and  more  genial  tones  which  had  made  the 
bright  spots  in  his  life. 

Nicholas  did  not  answer,  and  Robin  went 
on.  "  Ever  since  I  have  read  my  book,  I 
have  wanted  father  to  know.  He  used  to 
say  times  and  again  as  God  cared  nought  for 
poor  folks  like  us,  and  didn't  take  any 
thought  how  we  lived;  and  now  I  know 
how  Jesus  Christ  was  a  poor  boy  like  me, 
hungry  sometimes,  with  no  place  to  sleep  in, 
and  with  people  on  the  watch  to  do  Him 
harm,  though  He  was  so  good  and  loved 
them  all,  —  oh,"  and  his  throat  swelled  with 


BY  THE  BIVEB  SIDE,  79 

a  sob,  —  "  it  makes  me  love  Him  so,  and  I 
want  father  to  know." 

The  arm  was  drawn  closer  round  Robin's 
neck.  "I  know,"  said  Nicholas;  "I  am 
thinking  of  it  all  day  long.  Sometimes 
when  I  come  and  practise  here,  I  don't  feel 
as  if  I  were  making  the  music  myself,  but 
as  if,"  and  his  tones  sank  to  a  whisper,  "  it 
were  His  voice  speaking  to  me,  and  saying, 
'  My  poor  boy,  I  love  you,  though  you  are 
crippled  and  weak  and  good  for  nothing.' 
O  Robin,  he  is  so  good,  so  good,  I  want  to 
get  near  to  Him  and  never  leave  Him." 

The  two  boys  sat  silent,  with  a  sense  of 
companionship  and  common  love  which 
warmed  both  their  hearts,  for  Nicholas,  too, 
had  known,  since  his  mother's  death,  a 
lonely  boyhood.  His  father's  deep  love 
but  seldom  found  any  expression  in  words, 
though,  during  the  fits  of  pain  which  some- 
times befell  the  sickly  boy,  he  would  nurse 
him  as  tenderly  as  a  woman.  The  short 
winter  afternoon  had  quite  closed  in  as  the 
new  friends  sat  talking  on  the  stairs,  and 


80  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

the  lamps  which  had  been  lit  in  the  street 
without  showed  faint  spots  of  light  through 
the  gathering  mist. 

"  We  must  be  going  home  now,  Robin," 
said  Nicholas,  putting  one  hand  on  Robin's 
shoulder,  as  he  rose  and  fitted  his  crutch  to 
its  place.  I'm  so  glad  it's  you.  We'll  al- 
ways be  friends,  won't  we  ?  " 

"  If  you'll  let  me,"  said  Robin. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  CABIN  OF  THE  LIGHTER. 

[EN  Christmas  was  over,  the  cold 
weather  caine  suddenly,  and  Robin 
woke  one  morning  to  find  every 
mast  and  rope  on  the  river  coated  with 
frost.  But  in  a  few  hours  all  was  black  and 
dismal,  and  as  the  boy  rubbed  with  his  coat- 
cuff  the  tiny  pane  of  rough  glass  which 
served  him  for  a  window,  he  longed,  with  a 
bitter  sense  of  loneliness  and  distance,  to  see 
through  it  the  gleaming  stems  and  snow- 
laden  delicate  twigs  of  the  woods  at  home. 
Robin  had  cried  himself  to  sleep  the  night 
before,  for  in  spite  of  Nicholas's  kindness 
the  new  life  seemed  to  him  very  strange 

81 


82  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

and  hard ;  and  when  he  was  alone  in  hia 
little  hammock,  with  Grip's  nose  just  touch- 
ing his  hand  as  it  hung  over  the  side,  grief 
for  his  father,  and  something  like  fear  at 
being  so  far  from  everything  he  knew  and 
loved,  and  dislike  of  the  constant  active 
work,  so  different  from  his  idle  days  in  the 
woods  at  home,  seemed  to  make  a  trouble 
too  heavy  for  his  child's  heart  to  bear. 

But  sometimes,  even  in  the  midst  of  his 
trouble,  a  thought  would  come  into  his 
mind  that  brought  with  it  comfort  and 
peace.  A  voice  would  seem  to  speak  to 
him,  as  if  God  indeed  said,  "  Little  Robin, 
you  are  not  alone,  you  are  not  forsaken; 
God  cares  for  you,  and  knows  all  about 
you."  And  then  he  would  fall  happily 
asleep,  with  the  tears  yet  wet  on  his  face, 
and  wake  in  the  morning  to  begin  with 
new  hope  his  day's  work. 

His  new  master  was  not  inclined  to  let 
the  boy  be  idle.  By  the  first  gray  light  he 
must  be  on  deck,  shivering  in  his  torn  and 
scanty  clothes,  and  with  sand  and  stone  and 


THE  CABIN  OF  THE  LIGHTEB.  83 

stinging  half-frozen  water,  must  scrub  once 
more  to  whiteness  the  boards  that  always 
looked,  Robin  thought,  clean  enough  for  a 
farm-house  table.  Then  the  fire  must  be 
lit  and  the  kettle  set  on  to  boil,  the  cabin 
swept  out  and  arranged  with  perfect  neat- 
ness, and  breakfast  prepared.  All  day  long 
there  was  always  something  for  Robin  to  do. 
If  the  lighter  was  engaged  as  usual,  in  re- 
seiving  and  landing  the  cargo  of  merchant- 
men anchored  in  the  wider  mouth  of  the 
river,  then  the  boy  must  help  to  lift  heavy 
bales,  or  roll  cask  after  cask  along  the 
planks  to  the  shore,  while  Grip  kept  guard, 
watching  his  little  master,  as  if  he  would 
have  liked  to  help  had  he  only  known  how. 
Robin  was  very  tired  at  night,  more  tired 
than  he  remembered  to  have  been  after  his 
longest  birds'-nesting  expeditions  at  home. 
This  first  day  of  the  frost  was  also  the 
first  day  of  the  year,  but  to  Robin  it  was 
something  more  than  either  of  these,  and  he 
felt  it  to  be  a  very  importanc  occasion,  in- 
deed, as  he  stood  by  his  little  window,  rub- 
bing it  hard  with  his  coat-cuff. 


84  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

His  friend  the  peddler  had  completed  his 
purchases  now,  and  was  to  set  off  again 
that  afternoon  on  his  long  country  rounds  : 
and  before  he  went  it  must  be  decided 
whether  Robin  should  stay,  or  should  go 
back  with  him  again,  as  the  good  man  had 
promised,  in  case  the  boy  could  not  settle  to 
his  work.  About  twelve  o'clock  the  cap- 
tain, as  Robin  generally  called  his  old  mas- 
ter, put  his  head  out  of  the  cabin  door,  and 
shouted  to  Robin  to  come.  The  boy  went 
down  the  little  ladder,  his  heart  beating, 
and  his  face  almost  pale  with  excitement. 
The  peddler  was  there,  and  Nicholas  stood 
leaning  against  the  wall. 

"  Now,  boy,"  said  the  captain,  in  his 
roughest  tones,  "  best  say  your  mind  at 
once.  I  like  your  dog,  and  you  are  welcome 
to  stay,  and  I'll  find  board  for  the  two  of 
you,  and  more  decent  clothes  for  you.  But 
you  must  stay  here  two  years  before  you'll 
be  worth  a  penny  over  your  cost  to  feed 
and  clothe:  so  say  your  mind,  and  have 
done  with  it." 


THE  CABIN  OF  THE  LIGHTBB.  85 

"  Two  years."  It  seemed  a  lifetime  to 
Robin,  and  all  that  time  he  should  never  see 
the  woods  nor  the  grass  again.  He  would 
much  rather  wander  about  the  country  with 
Grip,  and  try  to  earn  a  few  pence  at  field 
work.  He  could  not  stay,  and  with  his 
hands  nervously  grasping  his  cap,  he  looked 
up  to  give  the  answer  that  would  send  him 
once  more  a  homeless  wanderer  into  the 
world.  He  looked  up,  and  his  glance  fell 
on  Nicholas,  who  was  watching  him  with 
eyes  that  seemed  to  read  his  very  thoughts, 
eyes  that  were  full  of  tears  now,  and  of 
anxious  longing. 

"  Nicholas,"  said  Robin,  suddenly,  and 
forgetting  all  that  he  had  meant  to  answer, 
"  do  you  want  me  to  stay  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Nicholas,  earnestly. 

"  Then,  captain,  I'll  stay." 

"  Please  yourself,"  said  the  old  man,  care- 
lessly, though  he  watched  the  two  with  keen 
eyes. 

"  You've  been  very  good  to  me,  mister," 
went  on  Robin,  turning  to  his  first  friend ; 


86  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

"  and  please,  if  you  ever  meet  father,  to  say 
as  he'll  find  me  here ;  and  do  tell  him  it 
wastn't  my  fault  I  came  away  from  the  cot- 
tage, for  I  was  turned  out." 

"  Ay,  ay,  I'll  mind  about  it,"  said  the 
peddler,  shaking  Robin's  little  brown  hand. 
"  No  fear  of  my  forgetting,  and  I  should 
know  his  face  if  I  saw  him.  I  remember 
how  sharp  he  took  me  up  when  he  came 
into  the  cottage  ;  there,  there,  never  mind," 
as  an  expression  of  some  distress  crossed 
the  boy's  face,  "  I  don't  bear  malice."  He 
drew  Robin  a  little  aside,  and  went  on  in  a 
lower  tone,  "I'm  right  glad  you've  made  up 
your  mind  to  stay ;  you  feel  a  bit  strange  at 
first,  I  dare  say,  but  here  you  have  a  home 
and  friends,  and  the  chance  of  learning. 
It's  a  deal  better  than  being  a  mere  tramp 
about  the  country." 

"  Yes,"  said  Robin,  slowly,  and  with  no 
very  hopeful  expression ;  and  then,  brighten- 
ing, "and  you  know  father  may  come  any 
day." 

"  See  you,"  said  his  friend,  going  on  with 


CABIN  OP  THE  LIGHTBB.  87 


his  own  thoughts,  and  not  taking  any  notice 
of  Robin's  words,  "  you  may  get  the  best 
of  all  learning  here,  if  you  will.  Do  you 
know  what  that  is,  boy  ?  '  The  fear  of  the 
Lord  is  the  beginning  of  wisdom.'  Take 
you  heed  to  learn  of  Him  now  while  you 
are  young,  and  He  gives  you  the  opportun- 
ity ;  'tis  a  great  thing  to  live  with  those  that 
serve  God.  Tis  but  little  I  have  been  able 
to  teach  you  ;  I'm  but  an  ignorant  man  my- 
self ;  but  pray  to  God  to  make  you  want  to 
know  more,  and  to  prepare  your  heart  to 
understand,  and  then  He  will  teach  you. 
The  more  you  want  to  know,  the  more  there 
is  waiting  for  you  to  learn,  and  we  shall 
never  get  to  the  end  of  learning,  for  the 
love  of  God  is  always  beyond  our  thoughts." 

"I  will  try  to  learn,  indeed,"  answered 
Robin,  and  I'll  say  the  prayer  every  night 
and  morning  that  you  taught  me  ;  and  per- 
haps, when  I  know  a  good  deal,  I  shall  be 
able  to  teach  father." 

That  evening,  while  the  captain  was  gone 
on  shore  to  look  up  an  old  messmate,  the 


88  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

two  boys  settled  themselves  cosily  by  the 
cabin  fire.  Work  was  over  for  the  day, 
and  Grip  was  keeping  watch  over  the  barrels 
on  the  deck,  and  it  was  with  an  unusual 
sense  of  leisure  and  contentment  that  Robin 
spread  out  his  cold  hands  to  the  bright 
blaze. 

"  Poor  old  fellow,"  said  Nicholas,  touch- 
ing, as  he  spoke,  the  torn  sleeve,  through 
which  the  boy's  bare  elbow  showed  plainly. 
"  You  and  I  are  to  go  on  shore  to-morrow, 
and  see  about  getting  you  a  better  rig-out. 
You'll  like  that,  won't  you  ?  " 

"Yes,"  replied  Robin,  tightening  the  clasp 
of  his  hands  round  his  knees  as  he  sat  on 
the  floor,  and  rocking  himself  backward  and 
forward  with  a  brightened  face.  "  Tell  us 
all  about  it ;  what  shall  you  get  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Nicholas,  smiling  too,  "  I 
have  been  thinking  it  would  be  good  fun  to 
astonish  my  father,  and  get  you  rigged  after 
a  real  sea-going  fashion." 

"Oh,  Nicholas !"  cried  Robin,  "you  never 
mean  a  blue  jersey  ?  " 


THE  CABIN  OP  THE  UQHTEB.  89 

"  Yes  I  do,"  laughed  Nicholas,  as  Robin's 
eyes  opened  wider. 

"  And  a  sou'-wester  ?  " 

Nicholas  nodded. 

"  And  a  blue  handkerchief,  and  all  that ; " 
and  Robin  fairly  leaped  up  with  delight,  and 
would  have  danced  about  the  cabin  floor, 
but  there  was  clearly  no  room  for  anything 
of  the  kind. 

"  But  will  the  captain  like  it  ?  "  be  asked, 
presently,  with  some  apprehension. 

"  Ay,  that  he  will ;  'twas  a  sore  trial  to 
him  when  I  had  to  give  them  up,  but  when 
I  began  to  play  the  organ,  folks  didn't  like 
it,  and  I  was  obliged  to  leave  it  off;  but  I 
saw  it  cut  father  deep,  though  he  never  said 
a  word.  Poor  father,  you'll  not  think  much 
of  his  sharp  words  when  you  know  him 
better,  Robin." 

"  And  shall  I  have  a  jersey  and  a  sou'- 
wester ?  "  repeated  Robin,  with  a  little  laugh 
of  shy  pleasure. 

"  Ay,  ay,  we'll  make  a  regular  salt  of  you ; 
only  you  wait  till  to-morrow  and  see." 


90  THE  FAITHFUL  BOX. 

"I  wish  Lettice  could  see  me,  and  old 
Sally,  and  Jonas,"  laughed  Robin.  "But, 
oh,  Nicholas,"  and  his  lip  fell,  and  the  smile 
left  his  face,  "father  won't  know  me  when 
he  comes ;  he'll  never  think  of  looking  for 
me  under  a  sou'-wester." 

"No  fear,  Robin,"  answered  Nicholas, 
gently.  "If  your  father  is  like  me  he'd 
know  your  little  brown  face  under  any  sort 
of  cap ;  besides,  you  know,  if  he  came  here 
to  find  you,  he  would  come  and  ask  father 
about  you." 

"  Oh  yes,"  answered  Robin,  eagerly,  "  and 
the  captain  would  say,  '  There  he  is,'  and 
father  would  look,  and  take  me  for  a  sailor  ; 
and  I  should  hear  him  speak,  and  come  run- 
ning to  him,  and  then  — "  and  the  boy's 
voice  was  lost  in  a  sob. 

"Come  now,"  said  Nicholas,  presently, 
"  we've  been  talking  about  your  plans,  now 
I'm  going  to  tell  you  some  of  mine  ;  what 
do  you  think  of  my  setting  up  a  school, 
Robin  ?  " 

"  Why  you  are  not  half  big  enough,"  said 


THE  CABIN   IN  THE  LIGHTBB.  91 

Robin,  looking  up  at  the  slight,  bent,  weakly 
figure  before  him.  "  Bob  Symonds  could 
lick  you  with  one  hand,  I  know  he  could. 
I'm  only  a  little  chap,  but  I'm  stronger  than 
you." 

"  And  you  think  a  schoolmaster  must  be 
strong  enough  to  thrash  all  the  boys,  do 
you?  Well,  but  Robin,  I  only  mean  to 
have  one  pupil  in  my  school,  and  I  don't 
think  he'll  want  to  fight  me." 

"  Only  one  ;  that  will  be  a  funny  school. 
Why  there  was  all  the  boys  about  went  to 
ours,"  and  Robin  began  to  reckon  their 
names  on  his  fingers,  beginning  with  Bob 
and  Jonas. 

"  I  want  you  to  be  my  pupil,  Robin,  and 
we'll  have  school  here  every  evening." 

"  Oh,  how  jolly,"  cried  Robin,  jumping 
up  from  the  floor.  "But  what  will  you 
learn  me  ?  will  it  be  out  of  my  book  ?  "  and 
Robin  pulled  his  treasured  Testament  from 
his  pocket. 

"  I'll  try,"  said  Nicholas.     "  We  can  read 


92  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

it  together,  anyhow,  and  you  might  begin  to 
write,  perhaps." 

"  Oh !  and  then  if  I  knew  where  fathei 
was,  I  could  write  him  a  letter  all  my  own 
self.  I  am  so  glad  I  said  I  would  stay ! " 
cried  Robin.  "I  shall  like  your  school, 
Nicholas.  Shall  we  begin  to-night?" 

"  Why,  you  silly  fellow,  it  is  ten  o'clock, 
and  time  you  were  asleep,"  answered  Nich- 
olas, laughing.  "Off  with  you,  and  we'U 
Bee  what  we  can  do  to-morrow." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

EOBIN'S     NEIGHBOR. 

JCHOLAS  had  chosen  for  their  first 
lesson  part  of  the  twenty-second 
chapter  of  St.  Matthew.  Robin  had 
learned  a  good  deal  from  the  peddler,  and 
could  manage  the  short  words,  while  he 
spelt  his  way  triumphantly  through  all  the 
long  ones ;  but  he  thought  nothing  of  the 
meaning  of  what  he  was  reading  till  he  came 
to  the  word  "  commandment "  in  the  thirty- 
sixth  verse.  The  sound  was  familiar,  and 
reminded  him  of  the  treasured  leaf  from 
which  he  took  his  first  lessons  ;  and  when  he 
had  read  on  a  little  further  he  said,  looking 

93 


94  THE  FAITHFUL   SON. 

up  in  Nicholas's  face,  "  Those  two  com- 
mandments  are  not  on  my  paper.'' 

"  No,"  said  Nicholas,  "  but  they  are  what 
you  may  call  the  meaning  of  all  the  others. 
If  you  were  to  keep  these  two,  you  would 
never  break  any  of  those  you  have  on  your 
paper,  Robin." 

The  boy  looked  puzzled,  and  was  going 
on  with  his  reading,  but  Nicholas  stopped 
him  by  saying,  "If  you  loved  God,  you 
could  not  have  any  other  god,  could  you  ? 
nor  take  His  holy  name  in  vain?  and  you 
could  not  break  His  Sabbath,  which  He  told 
us  to  keep.  And  if  you  loved  all  the  people 
about  you  as  well  as  you  loved  yourself,  you 
could  never  hurt  them  or  steal  from  them, 
or  say  what  was  not  true  about  them,  or 
want  to  have  their  things  for  yourself." 

"  No,"  said  Robin,  thoughtfully.  "  And  I 
don't  see  how  any  one  can  help  loving  God, 
when  they  know  how  He  loves  us,  and  how 
good  He  is ;  but  there  are  some  folks  I  don't 
love.  I  hate  Mr.  Pierson,  I  do,  and  Nathan 
Roberts's  missus,  so  there ; "  and  Robin 
stamped  with  his  foot. 


BOBIN'S  NEIGHBOR.  95 

"  God  loves  them,"  said  Nicholas,  in  a 
low  tone. 

"I  suppose  He  does,"  replied  Robin, 
doubtfully,  "  but  I  can't." 

"I  think,  Robin,  if  we  could  love  God 
very  much,  we  should  love  everybody  that 
He  cares  for." 

"I  can't  love  folks  I  don't  know,"  said 
Robin,  half  angrily.  "  God  loves  everybody 
in  the  world,  but  we  need  only  love  the 
folks  that  are  good  to  us." 

"Robin,"  said  Nicholas,  "I  love  you  so 
much,  that  I  love  your  father  for  your  sake, 
though  I  have  never  seen  him,  just  because 
you  set  so  much  by  him ;  so  I'm  sure  we 
ought  to  be  able  to  love  people  because  God 
cares  for  them." 

The  tears  came  into  Robin's  eyes  as  he 
slid  his  hand  into  the  thin  long  fingers 
which  were  turning  the  leaves  of  the  Bible. 
"  You  are  a  deal  better  than  me,  Nicholas," 
he  said,  "  but  I  will  try.  I  won't  hate  Mr. 
Pierson  if  I  can  help  it  anyhow." 

"  We  must  ask  God  to  help  us  to  love 


96  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

Him  more :  that  must  be  the  best  way  of 
learning  to  love  our  neighbor.  Oh,  Robin, 
sometimes  when  I  think  about  how  He  loves 
us,  it  seems  so  beautiful  and  wonderful,  that 
I  forget  everything  else.  It  doesn't  seem  to 
matter  that  I  am  a  poor,  ignorant,  sickly  lad, 
and  that  I  can't  do  anything  great,  nor  know 
much;  nothing  seems  to  matter,  for  I  am 
sure  it  is  all  right,  and  just  as  it  should  be, 
because  God  loves  me." 

"  There's  the  bell ! "  cried  Robin,  as  he 
heard  the  first  sound  from  the  steeple  of  a 
neighboring  church,  whose  organ  Nicholas 
played  on  two  evenings  in  the  week.  "  You 
must  be  going,  Nicholas,  but  I  can't  come 
with  you.  Captain  said  as  Grip  and  I  must 
keep  on  board  to-night." 

It  very  often  happened,  however,  that  the 
captain  managed  to  spare  Robin  to  walk 
with  Nicholas  to  church,  and  there  the  boy 
would  perch  himself  in  one  of  the  front 
seats,  feeling  as  if  he  had  a  sort  of  property 
in  the  music,  and  as  if  the  singing  were 
somehow  a  compliment  to  his  friend.  The 


BOBIN'S  NEIGHBOR.  97 

two  boys  used  greatly  to  enjoy  the  walk 
home  together,  through  the  lights  and  shad- 
ows of  the  streets,  where  they  would  talk 
together  of  those  deeper  thoughts  which  do 
not  come  so  readily  to  the  lips  of  boys  in 
the  midst  of  the  day's  light  and  work.  The 
longing  to  do  right  was  growing  strong  in 
Robin's  heart,  for  its  life  and  its  motive  was 
the  love  of  God  who  had  so  loved  him.  The 
Saviour  of  whom  Nicholas  spoke  seemed  to 
him  a  Friend  near  at  hand,  to  whom  he 
could  speak  out  of  the  depths  of  his  heart ; 
who  knew  all  his  faults  and  weaknesses,  and 
yet  loved  and  pitied  him  day  by  day. 

As  the  boys  read  together,  evening  after 
evening,  of  His  life  on  earth,  of  His  divine 
strength,  and  tenderness,  and  patience,  of 
His  patient  suffering,  of  His  compassion  for 
all  others  who  suffered  ;  so  did  the  image  of 
his  Saviour  grow  more  and  more  distinct  in 
Robin's  mind,  so  that  he  himself  began  to 
strive,  feebly  and  mistakenly  often,  but  still 
to  strive  to  follow  and  be  like  Him. 

March  was  come,  and  one  evening  about 


98  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

nine  o'clock  the  two  friends  were  coming 
home,  Nicholas  walking  slowly  along,  his 
hand  upon  Robin's  shoulder.  They  were 
close  beside  the  river,  when,  quite  suddenly, 
Nicholas  stopped,  and  bent  down  as  if  to 
look  at  something  dark,  which  Robin  could 
dimly  see  lying  before  them,  almost  within 
reach  of  the  wash  of  the  water. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  Robin  ;  but  Nicholas 
did  not  seem  to  hear.  He  was  kneeling 
now,  and  with  both  hands  turning  the  dark 
bundle  towards  the  distant  feeble  lamp-light. 
Presently  he  said,  in  a  low  whisper,  which 
Robin  could  only  just  hear,  "  He  is  alive. 
Run,  Robin ;  run  quick,  and  bring  my  father. 
We  shall  save  him  yet." 

Robin  ran,  hardly  knowing  why,  nor  what 
he  should  say  to  the  captain,  whom  he  found 
smoking  his  pipe  on  deck,  but  his  master 
seemed  not  at  all  surprised  at  his  hurried, 
breathless  words ;  and  muttering  something 
about  their  never  giving  him  any  peace, 
knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe  into  the 
river,  and  putting  it  into  his  pocket,  walked 


ROBIN'?  NEIGHBOR.  99 

without  any  appearance  of  hurry,  but  really 
BO  fast  that  Robin  could  hardly  keep  up 
with  him,  towards  the  spot  to  which  the 
boy  had  pointed. 

Nicholas  was  still  stooping  over  the  dark 
bundle,  which  the  captain,  bending  down 
lifted  in  his  arms,  and  carried  towards  the 
nearest  lamp.  He  gave  a  low  long  whistle, 
but  whether  of  surprise  or  dismay  Robin 
could  not  tell,  and  began  to  stride  hastily 
homeward.  Robin,  as  he  followed,  half 
running,  the  captain's  long  steps,  began 
to  understand  better  what  had  happened. 
Nicholas  had  found  some  one  lying  as  he 
himself  had  once  lain  in  the  road,  when  the 
peddler  took  pity  on  him.  Perhaps  he  was 
half-drowned  or  starving,  and  the  captain 
was  taking  him  home  to  try  to  save  him. 
Robin's  thoughts  flew  at  once  to  his  father, 
'{is  world  was  so  small,  that  he  could  not 
understand  how  unlikely  it  was  that  his 
father  should  be  close  by ;  nothing  seemed 
more  probable  to  the  boy,  whose  thoughts 
day  and  night  were  with  the  only  one  to 
whom  he  seemed  to  belong. 


100  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

The  captain  laid  his  burden  on  the  cabin 
table,  and  Robin,  with  a  smothered  cry  of 
"  father,"  ran  at  once  to  his  side,  but  his 
master  pulled  him  back. 

"  '  Father,'  indeed  !  "  said  he  ,  "  'tis  but  a 
poor  boy ;  stand  back  and  give  him  air  ;  or 
stay,  you  can  rub  his  feet  and  hands,  whlie 
I  get  some  broth  ready;  he'll  come  to,  he'll 
do.  I've  seen  a  many  such." 

And  by  the  time  Nicholas'  slower  feet 
had  crossed  to  the  boat,  the  lad  had  already 
half  unclosed  his  lips  to  receive  the  warm 
broth,  which  the  captain  was  giving  him 
with  all  the  tenderness  and  care  of  a  woman. 
The  boy,  who  wore  a  torn  and  patched  sail- 
or's dress,  had  been  a  cabin-boy  on  board  a 
small  merchant  vessel,  from  which  he  had 
been  discharged  ill  a  few  days  ago.  The  lit- 
tle money  which  he  had,  had  all  been  lost, 
or  taken  from  him  at  a  sailors'  boarding 
house,  to  which  he  had  gone  for  shelter; 
and  being  friendless  and  homeless,  and  too 
ill  to  care  much  what  became  of  him,  he  had 
crawled  along  the  river  side,  with  some 
thought  of  finding  shelter  for  the  night  in 


ROBIN'S  NEIGHBOR.  101 

one  of  the  barges ;  but  he  was  too  weak,  and 
had  fallen  down,  as  he  thought,  to  die,  when 
Nicholas  touched  him  as  he  passed,  and 
stopped  to  look.  By  the  time  the  boy  had 
revived  enough  to  tell  them  his  story,  which 
the  captain  heard,  standing  with  his  back  to 
them,  and  drubbing  with  his  fingers  all  the 
time  on  the  little  window,  it  was  long  past 
ten  o'clock,  and  Robin  felt  tired  and  unhap- 
py. He  would  not  go  to  his  hammock,  and 
yet  it  made  him  feel  miserable  to  see  Nich- 
olas bending  over  the  sick  boy,  and  soothing 
him  with  gentle  words. 

Robin  had  not  known  before  how  much 
he  loved  Nicholas,  and  now  he  began  to  tell 
himself  that  his  friend  did  not  really  care 
for  him,  that  he  spoke  just  as  kindly  to  this 
strange  boy.  "  I  dare  say,  he  would  like 
me  to  go,  and  let  this  other  boy  stay  in  my 
place,"  thought  Robin;  "  and  I  will  go  too, 
and  if  I'm  starved,  it  won't  matter  ;  nobody 
cares  for  me  in  all  the  world."  He  was  so 
absorbed  in  these  thoughts,  that  he  did  not 
hear  the  whispered  talk  between  the  cap- 


102  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

tain  and  his  son,  as  to  where  the  sick  boy 
had  best  be  put  for  the  night,  until  Nicho- 
las turned  around,  and  saying  aloud,  "Yes, 
father,  I  think  that  will  be  best,"  came  up 
to  Robin,  and  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  Robin, 
you  won't  mind  sleeping  on  the  cabin  floor 
to-night,  and  letting  the  poor  boy  have  your 
hammock,  will  you?  'Twill  be  softer  for 
him,  poor  fellow  !  " 

Robin  did  not  answer,  only  turned  a  little 
away  with  an  angry  frown  on  his  face,  for 
he  did  not  like  to  meet  the  sorrowful  gaze, 
which  he  felt  rather  than  saw,  in  the  blue 
eyes  which  were  fixed  on  him. 

"  Father,"  said  Nicholas,  going  quietly  to 
his  side,  "perhaps,  after  all,  the  boy  had 
better  be  in  the  cabin.  He  will  be  nearer  at 
hand  in  case  he  wants  anything  in  the  night, 
and  he  can  have  my  old  rug  for  a  bed  ;  it 
will  be  a  deal  softer  than  the  paving-stones 
that  he  has  slept  on  of  late,  anyway." 

"  Please  yourself,"  said  the  captain.  "  I 
take  no  concern  about  the  matter.  You 
found  him,  didn't  you  ?  Let  him  sleep  on 
deck,  for  aught  I  care." 


.ROBIN'S  NEIQHBOB.  103 

44  We'll  do  better  for  him  than  that,"  said 
Nicholas,  smiling,  as,  without  asking  any 
help  from  Robin,  he  began  to  arrange  the 
bed,  on  which  the  captain  placed  the  sick 
boy. 

Robin  was  tired  enough  as  he  lay  down 
in  his  hammock  that  night,  but  he  could  not 
sleep.  He  was  restless  and  miserable  be- 
cause he  had  admitted  into  his  heart  angry 
and  jealous  thoughts  ;  and  instead  of  asking 
God  to  take  them  away,  and  trying  to  fill 
his  mind  with  loving  and  grateful  remem- 
brances, kept  repeating  to  himself  all  the 
kind  words  which  he  had  heard  Nicholas 
say  to  the  poor  lad,  and  making  himself  be- 
lieve that  his  friend  no  longer  cared  for  him. 
The  angry,  bitter  thoughts  that  tempted  him 
to  sin,  were  speaking  loud  in  his  heart ;  but 
there  was  another  voice,  still  and  small, 
which  yet  made  itself  heard  over  all,  a  voice 
which  repeated  to  him  words  that  he  had 
read  in  God's  own  book,  "  Thou  shalt  love 
thy  neighbor  as  thyself."  For  a  long  time 
Robin  would  not  listen.  Over  and  over 


104  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

again  he  settled  himself  in  his  hammock 
and  drew  his  rug  over  his  face,  determined 
to  sleep  and  forget  it  all,  but  he  could  not. 
By-and-by  he  began  to  think  of  the  sick 
boy,  who  was  perhaps  trying  in  vain  to 
sleep  on  the  hard  cabin  floor.  He  remem- 
bered the  nights  when  he  had  himself  been 
so  desolate  and  lonely,  and  began  to  feel 
ashamed  of  his  selfishness  and  ingratitude. 

God  had  been  so  kind  to  him,  and  yet, 
when  asked  to  show  kindness  to  another 
who  was  suffering,  he  was  angry  and  turned 
away. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  ;  I  am  a  very  bad  boy, 
and  I  shouldn't  think  God  would  ever  for- 
give me,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  but  I  will  ask 
Him  ;  "  and  crawling  out  of  his  bed,  he  knelt 
in  the  thick  darkness  of  the  little  hold,  and 
tried  to  pray  for  pardon. 

But  the  words  would  not  come.  It  seemed 
impossible  to  ask  to  be  forgiven,  while  the 
poor  boy  was  yet  lying  on  the  hard  floor,  his 
stiff  limbs  perhaps  aching  more  and  more 
every  minute.  Yet  Robin  felt  he  could  not 


ROBIN'S  NEIGHBOR.  105 

get  into  his  hammock  again ;  and  creeping 
softly  along,  first  to  the  deck,  where  he 
felt  the  keen  wind,  and  then  down  the  lad- 
der, he  entered  the  cabin,  where  a  little 
light,  from  a  craft  moored  close  beside, 
shone  through  the  tiny  window.  He  could 
see  the  sick  boy's  eyes  wide  open,  and  hear 
a  little  feeble  moan  as  he  entered,  and,  feel- 
ing more  than  ever  ashamed  of  himself,  he 
crept  to  the  side  of  the  rug,  "  Why  can't 
you  sleep  ?  "  he  whispered  very  softly,  for 
fear  of  waking  the  captain  and  Nicholas, 
whose  hammocks  were  slung  not  far  off. 

"  I  feel  sore  all  over,  and  my  bones  ache 
like,"  answered  the  boy,  hoarsely. 

"  Would  you  fancy  a  hammock  ?  'T would 
be  easier  lying  than  this,"  went  on  Robin. 

The  boy's  face  brightened  a  little.  "But 
I  can't,  they  are  both  full,"  he  answered, 
doubtfully. 

"  That's  the  captain  and  Nicholas.  He 
wanted  ever  so  bad  to  give  up  his,  but  cap- 
tain put  his  foot  down  that  he  shouldn't,  for 
he's  but  weakly  and  lame,  you  know.  But 


106  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

there's  my  hammock.  I  could  get  you  there 
in  a  minute  if  you  can  walk.  It's  only  up 
the  ladder  and  down  again :  you  can  manage 
that  if  I  help  you,  can't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  boy,  with  pleasure  at  the 
idea  of  change  and  of  the  cold  air ;  "  but 
what  will  you  do  ?  " 

"  I  shall  have  a  rare  game,  lying  on  the 
fioor  ;  'tis  fun  to  me.  I  was  used  to  it  like 
at  home.  Here,  keep  you  hold  of  my  hand, 
and  we'll  be  up  in  no  time,"  and  Robin 
wrapped  the  rug  round  the  trembling  boy. 

When  he  had  seen  his  new  companion 
warmly  covered,  and  so  comfortable  he  felt 
sure  he  should  go  to  sleep  at  once,  Robin  re- 
turned to  the  cabin,  but  before  he  lay  down 
he  knelt  once  more.  And  now  he  could  ask 
for  pardon.  He  was  more  sorry  and  ashamed 
than  before,  but  the  sorrow  was  no  longer 
hard  and  speechless.  His  kind  words  to  the 
poor  boy  had  softened  his  own  heart,  and 
the  love  which  God  had  caused  to  take  the 
place  of  his  angry  feelings,  brought  with  it 
the  assurance  of  forgiveness,  through  that 


BOBIN'S  NEIGHBOR.  107 

love  of  which  all  that  we  can  feel  is  but  the 
faintest  reflection. 

As  he  lay  down,  his  eye  fell  for  a  moment 
on  a  heap  in  the  corner  of  the  cabin,  the 
captain's  clothes,  thrown  there  in  careless 
disorder,  arid  Robin  saw  to  his  surprise,  that 
close  by  them,  on  the  floor,  lay  a  shining 
coin,  a  gold  sovereign,  as  he  saw  when  he 
stooped  to  pick  it  up.  He  held  it  for  a  mo- 
ment, thinking  what  he  should  do  with  it, 
and  then  laying  it  down  on  the  corner  of  the 
little  table,  where  the  captain  would  see  it 
in  the  morning,  he  rolled  himself  in  the  rug, 
and  was  soon  fast  asleep. 


CHAPTER  VIH. 

THE     BE8OUE. 

»ERHAPS  it  was  the  hard  bed  which 
caused  Robin  to  wake  earlier  than 
usual ;  for  as  soon  as  the  first  gray 
light  shone  into  the  cabin  he  was  up  and  on 
deck,  about  to  begin  his  day's  work,  before 
either  the  captain  or  Nicholas  had  left  their 
hammocks. 

To  his  surprise,  he  found  the  sick  boy 
wrapped  in  a  rug,  and  leaning  over  the  side 
of  the  lighter.  He  was  so  hot  below,  he 
said,  and  indeed  he  looked  wearied  and 
feverish.  Robin  did  not  know  how  bad  it 
was  to  linger  in  the  chill  air,  so  he  made  a 
seat  among  some  casks,  and  when  Nicholas 

108 


THE  RESCUE.  109 

came  up  the  two  were  chatting  busily  to- 
gether, as  Robin  hurried  to  and  fro  about 
his  morning's  work. 

Nigholas  gave  a  cry  of  surprise  at  seeing 
the  boy  seated  there,  and  looked  at  Robin 
for  explanation. 

"He  said  it  was  so  hot  down  below," 
said  Robin;  "and  his  arm  hurt  him"  bad. 
Have  you  seen  his  arm,  Nicholas  ?  " 

The  right  arm  uncovered  showed  a  deep 
wound  near  the  shoulder,  which  had  evi- 
dently been  neglected,  and  was  hot  and 
festering. 

"  He  did  it  aboard  ship,  he  says,"  ex- 
plained Robin.  "  One  of  the  men  was  after 
him  with  a  rope,  and  running  round  the 
deck,  he  fell  on  some  big  bit  of  iron." 

"  Father  knows  more  of  such  things  than 
I  do,"  said  Nicholas,  going  away  to  call  his 
father,  with  an  anxious  look,  which  did  not 
escape  Robin's  quick  eyes.  Presently  the 
captain  came  slowly  on  deck.  He  too  looked 
very  grave,  and  he  spoke  to  the  sick  boy  in 
a  tone  which,  though  kind,  seemed  to  show 


110  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

either  uneasiness  or  absence  of  mind.  The 
boy  winched  and  shivered  as  the  captain 
touched  the  wound,  and  was  in  such  evident 
pain,  that  Robin  felt  more  than  ever  ashamed 
of  his  selfishness  the  night  before.  After 
some  little  talk  between  Nicholas  and  his 
father,  the  captain  turned  to  Robin  and  told 
him  to  hurry  breakfast,  for  that  he  meant  to 
take  the  boy  to  a  hospital  as  soon  as  possible. 
"  'Tis  a  bad  wound,  a  bad  wound,"  he  mut- 
tered. "  He'll  need  the  best  of  care  to  pull 
him  through,  and  'tis  not  I  will  do  anything 
against  his  having  it,  poor  fellow.  If  we 
all  had  our  deserts,  some  of  us  would  be 
badly  oft'." 

Robin  was  too  busy  blowing  the  damp 
sticks  into  flame  to  think  much  of  the  cap- 
tain's words,  though  he  could  not  under- 
stand them.  Presently  the  captain  went 
away  with  the  boy,  dressed  in  an  outgrown 
suit  of  Nicholas's  ;  and  when  he  returned, 
about  noon,  saying  that  the  lad  had  been 
admitted,  he  brought  with  him  also  word 
that  they  must  get  up  sail  and  be  off,  for  ho 


THE  BESCUE.  Ill 

had  to  unload  a  vessel  two  miles  further 
down.  All  were  now  too  busy  to  talk  or 
even  think  much  of  what  had  been  of  so 
great  interest  the  night  before.  Nicholas 
was  going  with  them,  and  they  were  soon 
making  their  slow  way  down  the  river,  after 
the  few  casks  which  still  encumbered  the 
deck  had  been  safely  stowed  on  shore. 

Nicholas  seemed  to  have  forgotten  how 
badly  Robin  had  behaved  the  night  before. 
He  spoke  to  him  in  his  usual  pleasant  tone, 
though  Robin  fancied  that  both  he  and  his 
father  were  a  little  grave  and  absent,  as 
though  something  had  happened  to  make 
them  sorry. 

But  he  had  not  much  time  for  such 
thoughts.  They  were  soon  alongside  the 
great  ship,  receiving  bale  after  bale  of  soft 
cotton  goods,  which,  as  fast  as  they  were 
received,  Nicholas  and  Robin  helped  to  pile 
in  some  sort  of  order.  It  was  almost  dusk 
before  they  left,  heavily  laden,  for  the  wharf 
at  which  their  cargo  was  to  be  discharged  . 
and  Robin  sat  down  among  the  bales  to  rest 


112  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

and  cool  his  face  —  hot,  despite  the  chill 
breeze.  A  hand  touched  his  shoulder,  and 
looking  up  with  a  start,  he  saw  the  captain 
watching  him,  with  almost  a  smile  on  his 
face.  "  You'll  make  a  sailor  in  time,  boy," 
he  said  ;  "  you  begin  to  have  the  cut  of  one 
You've  worked  famously  to-day."  They 
were  the  first  words  of  praise  which  Robin 
had  heard  from  his  master,  and  they  were 
very  sweet  to  him. 

Little  by  little  the  boy's  first  fear  of 
the  stern,  sharp-speaking  captain  had  been 
changing  into  an  earnest  wish  to  win  the 
approval  of  one  whom  it  seemed  so  hard  to 
please.  Robin  started  up,  his  glowing  face 
hotter  than  ever,  and  muttering  something 
about  Nicholas  having  done  more  than  half, 
he  began  to  collect  some  of  the  smaller 
things  scattered  about  the  deck,  and  then 
flew  down  into  the  cabin  to  put  everything 
ship-shape  there. 

But  when  his  work  below  was  only  half 
done,  a  sudden  shout  called  him  on  deck, 
and  before  he  could  clearly  understand  the 


THE  EESCUB.  113 

meaning  of  the  alarm,  he  and  Nicholas  were 
pulling  at  the  ropes  with  desperate  energy, 
the  captain  at  the  helm,  shouting  with  a  set 
face  his  hurried  orders,  while  he  kept  his 
eye  fixed  on  a  large  steamer,  which  was 
bearing  down  on  them  so  quickly,  that  it 
seemed  as  if  the  two  must  meet  before  the 
course  of  either  could  be  checked  or  altered. 

It  was  all  over  in  three  minutes,  yet  it 
seemed  to  Robin  as  if  he  had  stood  for  an 
hour  at  that  rope,  seeing,  though  scarcely 
knowing  that  he  saw,  the  crowded  deck  of 
the  steamer  and  the  excited  gestures  of  the 
passengers,  and  hearing  the  shouts  and  cries 
of  the  Bailors.  It  was  coming  now !  The 
steamer  would  touch  them,  graze  them  at 
least  !  No  ;  they  were  safe  ;  there  was 
nearly  a  foot  between  them.  She  had  shot 
ahead,  and  all  danger  was  over. 

But  what  was  that  sudden  cry  ?  Robin, 
who  had  covered  his  eyes  in  terror  as  the 
steamer  came  nearer  and  nearer,  unclasped 
his  hands,  and  saw  what  made  him  forget 
everything,  loose  his  hold  on  the  rope,  and 


114  THE   FAITHFUL  SON. 

run  forward.  A  little  girl,  who  had  been 
leaning  over  the  side  of  the  steamer,  had, 
unnoticed  as  it  seemed  in  the  confusion, 
crept  to  the  only  unguarded  place,  where 
they  had  been  preparing  to  lower  a  boat, 
and  now,  as  she  stood  watching  the  lighter 
close  behind  them,  she  suddenly  lost  her 
balance  and  fell  into  the  water.  Robin  saw 
the  little  blue  cloak  strike  the  water,  saw 
the  fair  hair  and  white  arms  for  one  moment 
above  the  surface,  and  heard  again  the  cry 
which  had  rung  through  his  ears  the  mo- 
ment before.  He  had  been  the  best  swim- 
mer at  home,  and  he  never  thought  of  hesi- 
tating now.  He  had  kicked  off  his  thick 
boots,  and  dived  from  the  deck  long  before 
the  boat  could  be  lowered  from  the  steamer, 
and  was  swimming  with  all  his  strength  to- 
wards the  spot  where  he  had  last  seen  the 
fair  hair.  As  he  plunged  he  saw,  though 
he  did  not  remember  it  till  afterwards,  a  tall 
figure  on  the  deck  of  the  steamer,  preparing 
as  it  seemed  to  leap  over,  and  held  back  by 
force  by  others  who  were  crowding  around ; 


The  Rescue. —Page  114. 


THE  RESCUE.  115 

and  the  remembrance  of  this  tall  figure 
dwelt  in  his  mind,  as  of  some  one  he  had 
known  or  seen  long  before.  Now,  however, 
he  had  but  one  thought  —  to  save  the  little 
drowning  child;  and  as  once  more  he  &aw 
the  blue  cloak  floating  on  the  water,  close 
beside  him,  he  grasped  it  with  all  his  luight 
with  his  left  hand,  hoping  to  keep  himself 
afloat  with  the  other,  till  the  boat  thould 
come.  But  help  was  not  so  near  at  Land  as 
he  had  thought.  The  boat  chains  had  be- 
come twisted,  and  every  one  was  so  hurried 
and  confused  that  the  captain  of  the  steamer 
gave  his  orders  in  vain  ;  while  Robin,  grow- 
ing fainter  and  weaker,  was  almost  ready  to 
loose  his  hold  of  the  clinging  child. 

But  he  would  not.  He  could  see  nothing 
of  what  was  going  on  around  him,  but  as 
he  seemed  to  sink  deeper  and  deeper  in  the 
water,  his  mind  grew  very  clear  and  wake- 
ful. He  saw  all  his  past  life  as  in  a  pic- 
ture, the  little  cottage  where  he  had  spent 
his  twelve  years  of  ignorant  childhood,  his 
father's  disappearance,  his  rambling  life  with 


116  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

the  peddler,  the  new  thoughts  which  were 
beginning  to  fill  his  mind.  He  saw  even  his 
own  most  treasured  hopes  set  before  him, 
as  if  they  might  be  really  his  —  his  father 
found,  and  become  a  good  man  ;  himself  a 
scholar,  rich,  and  looked  up  to  by  all  the 
boys  of  the  village  ;  the  old  captain  and 
Nicholas  living  somewhere  near,  so  that  he 
could  see  them  every  day,  and  Nicholas 
could  play  the  organ  in  the  old  church,  at 
what  Robin  still  called  "  home."  He  saw 
them,  and  felt  as  if  all  these  might  yet  be 
his,  if  only  he  would  loose  his  grasp  of  the 
child  while  there  was  yet  time,  but  he  could 
not.  Something  stronger  even  than  the  de- 
sire of  life  made  him  hold  fast,  as  the  child's 
arms  about  him  grew  weak  and  strength- 
less,  and  in  his  heart  he  prayed,  u  O  God, 
save  us." 

It  was  but  a  very  few  minutes,  though 
to  Robin  it  seemed  hours,  and  he  did  not 
hear  the  sudden  cry  of  gladness  and  relief 
as  the  spectators  saw  a  great  black  dog 
spring  from  the  deck  of  the  lighter,  swim  to 


THE  RESCUE.  117 

the  spot  where  Robin  was  almost  disappear- 
ing under  the  water,  and,  seizing  him  with 
his  teeth,  push  him  and  the  burden,  which 
he  still  clasped,  towards  the  boat  from  which 
he  had  come. 

"  Good  Grip,  brave  dog  !  "  said  Nicholas, 
with  a  sob,  as  he  and  his  father  lifted  the 
two  senseless,  and,  as  it  seemed,  lifeless 
forms  to  the  deck.  The  boat  was  afloat  by 
this  time,  and  the  little  pale  girl,  with  closed 
eyes  and  drenched  hair  and  cloak,  was  soon 
carried  by  it  to  the  steamer,  while  the  cap- 
tain and  Nicholas  bent  over  Robin,  trying 
every  means  which  they  knew  to  restore  the 
life  that  seemed  almost  gone. 

When  his  consciousness  returned  at  last, 
and  he  opened  his  eyes,  he  was  in  the  cabin, 
lying  on  the  rug  on  which  he  had  slept  the 
night  before.  Perhaps  it  was  because  of 
this  that  his  first  thoughts  were  of  the  sick 
boy,  and  that  he  attempted  to  rise,  with 
some  not  very  clear  idea  of  going  to  the 
hammock  to  see  how  he  had  passed  the 
night.  But  when  he  tried  to  rise  he  found 


118  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

himself  so  weak  that  he  sank  back  again, 
and  closed  his  eyes ;  not,  however,  before  he 
had  seen  Nicholas  bending  over  him,  with  a 
glad  smile  on  his  face. 

Robin  remembered  it  all  now ;  the  whole 
scene  came  clearly  before  his  mind,  and 
specially  recalled,  with  a  kind  of  troubled 
interest,  the  figure  of  the  tall  gentleman 
whom  he  had  seen  struggling  on  the  deck. 
Surely  he  had  seen  him  before.  But  it 
harassed  him  to  try  and  remember  where ; 
and  he  was  glad  to  look  up  again  at  Nicho- 
las, intending  to  ask  whether  the  little  girl 
was  safe.  But  he  forgot  his  question  as  he 
saw  the  tears  on  his  friend's  face,  tears  not 
of  sorrow  but  of  loving  gladness ;  and  he 
lifted  one  of  his  arms,  and  put  it  over  Nich- 
olas's shoulder  as  he  knelt  beside  him. 

"You're  glad  I'm  not  drowned?"  said 
Robin,  with  a  catching  in  his  voice  as  he 
asked  the  question. 

"  I  must  have  come  after  you,"  said  Nich- 
olas, only  answering  the  question  by  a  closer 
clasp  of  the  brown  hand  which  lay  in  his 


THE  BESCTJE.  119 

own.  "But  I  knew  nothing  would  keep 
father  back  then,  and  he  can't  swim,  Robin. 
I  had  to  hold  him  fast,  as  it  was,  I  can  tell 
you  ;  'twas  he  thought  of  calling  Grip." 

The  dog,  as  if  he  heard  his  name,  came 
pattering  down  the  cabin  stairs,  and  pushing 
open  the  door  with  his  nose,  put  his  great 
black  paws  on  Robin's  breast,  and  licked  his 
face  affectionately,  a  liberty  which  his  mas- 
ter for  once  allowed. 

"  I  didn't  know  any  one  would  care,"  said 
Robin,  presently. 

"Why,  Robin,"  said  Nicholas,  "you're 
my  friend.  I  was  so  lonesome  before  you 
came ;  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do  to 
lose  you." 

"  Then  I'll  be  good ;  I'll  learn  fast,"  said 
Robin,  sitting  up,  as  he  felt  his  strength 
returning.  "  I  shall  be  quite  happy  if  you 
love  me,  you  and  your  father,"  and  he  spoke 
the  last  words  doubtfully. 

"  Father  is  ever  so  proud  and  pleased 
with  you,"  said  Nicholas.  "  He  says  you've 
the  making  of  a  man  in  you,  but  he's  finely 


120  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

put  out  because  we've  heard  nothing  from 
the  steamer ;  but  I  say  'tis  barely  four  houra 
ago,  and  they'll  have  been  busy  with  the 
little  lass." 

"  Is  she  alive  ?  "  asked  Robin,  earnestly. 

"  She  had  not  come  to  when  they  took 
her  away,  but  that  was  just  as  Grip  pulled 
you  both  out.  Oh,  she'd  do,  she'd  be  sure 
to  do,  never  fear.  We  shall  hear  something 
of  the  steamer  to-morrow ;  but  she's  gone 
on,  and  we  are  at  the  wharf  now ;  don't  you 
hear  father  overhead  with  the  goods  ?  He's 
got  two  men  to  help  him,  and  sent  me  down 
to  you  ;  we  are  off  for  another  load  soon." 

Robin  lay  still  in  happy  content,  listening 
to  the  sound  of  feet  and  voices  overhead, 
and  holding  his  friend's  hand  in  his  own. 
Presently  he  said,  "I'm  going  to  sleep, 
Nicholas,  and  I  can't  get  up  to  say  my 
prayers,  and  I  can't  think  of  the  words. 
Could  you  say  a  prayer,  and  I'll  say  it  after 
you  ?  and  don't  forget  the  little  girl,  Nich- 
olas." 

And  so  Robin  sank  to  sleep,  while  his 


THE   RESCUE. 


121 


friend  watched  him  in  the  dusk  of  the  quiet 
cabin.  He  moved  a  little  now  and  then, 
and  Nicholas  heard  him  murmur  more  than 
once,  in  a  tone  of  gladness  and  surprise, 
"  Then  you  are  glad  I'm  not  drowned  ?  " 


CHAPTER  IX. 

TEMPTATION. 

jOBIN,"  said  Nicholas,  coming  into 
the  cabin  the  next  morning,  just  as 
the  boy  was  waking  from  a  long 
sound  sleep;  "here's  the  gentleman  come, 
and  asking  after  you." 

"  Gentleman  !  "  said  Robin,  sitting  up  and 
rubbing  his  eyes.  "  I  don't  know  who  you 
mean." 

"  It  was  his  little  girl,"  replied  Nicholas, 
lucidly. 

"  Oh  yes.     Is  the  little  girl  come  too  ?  " 
And  Robin,  without  waiting  for  an  answer, 
himself    off    the   chairs    which    had 
122 


TEMPTATION.  128 

served  him  for  a  bed,  and  began  to  dress, 
though  he  felt  curiously  weak  and  giddy. 

"  Tis  only  the  gentleman,"  answered 
Nicholas,  talking  in  the  intervals  of  helping 
Robin  with  his  hurried  toilet ;  *'  but  he  says 
the  little  girl  is  doing  finely.  He  is  a  tall, 
good-looking  gentleman  enough,  and  he 
seems  main  set  on  seeing  you ;  but  he  has  a 
way  with  him  I  don't  like  —  but  there, 
you'll  see  him  for  yourself  soon  enough. 
Stay  a  bit,  Robin ;  brush  your  hair,  boy ; 
you'll  do  now ;  tumble  on  deck  as  fast  as 
ever  you  like." 

When  Robin,  tumbling  on  deck  as  Nicho- 
las had  advised,  found  himself  in  the  pres- 
ence of  a  tall,  dignified,  white-haired  gen- 
tleman —  whose  habit  of  command  showed 
itself  even  in  his  words  of  gratitude  to 
the  boy  who  had  saved  his  child's  life  —  a 
strange,  distressed  feeling  of  shyness  came 
over  him. 

"  And  now,  my  boy,  what  can  I  do  for 
you?"  said  .the  gentleman,  after  he  had 
thanked  him  warmly.  "I'm  a  rich  man, 


124  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

and  you  have  every  claim  on  me.  I  shoula 
like  to  push  you  a  step  on  in  the  world. 
Come,  tell  me  what  you  would  wish." 

Robin's  attitude,  as  he  stood  silent,  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  deck,  while  with  his  fin- 
gers he  pulled  nervously  at  the  front  lock  of 
his  brown  hair,  amused  the  strange  gentle- 
man. But  he  was  also  rather  surprised: 
this  was  not  the  usual  manner  of  a  London- 
bred  lad,  it  was  the  same  kind  of  frightened 
awkwardness  he  was  accustomed  to  see  in 
the  boys  about  his  place  in  the  country, 
when  by  chance  he  asked  a  question  of  one 
of  them. 

Meanwhile  many  troubled  thoughts  and 
remembrances  were  passing  through  Robin's 
mind,  for  now  that  he  had  seen  the  gentle- 
man near,  and  heard  him  speak,  he  knew  at 
once  why  it  was  that  his  figure  had  seemed 
familiar  to  him  when  he  saw  him  on  the 
deck  of  the  steamer. 

"  Come,  speak  up,  my  boy,"  went  on  his 
companion,  in  an  amused  tone  of  encourage- 
ment. "  Don't  be  afraid  of  asking  too 
much." 


TEMPTATION.  125 

"If  you  please,  sir,"  answered  Robin, 
still  without  looking  up,  "I  don't  want  any- 
thing. I  didn't  save  miss  —  I  mean  the  lit- 
tle girl  —  that  is,  the  young  lady  —  for  that ; 
but,  if  you  didn't  think  it  too  great  a  liberty, 
I  should  like  to  send  her  my  duty,  and 
hoping  she  finds  herself  finely  this  morn- 
ing." 

"  You  shall  come  and  see  her — not  to-day 
though,  but  when  she  is  a  little  stronger. 
My  wife  wants  to  thank  you  too.  Let  me 
see  —  this  is  Thursday  —  suppose  we  say 
Monday.  Can  you  let  this  little  fellow  come 
to  me  on  Monday,  about  twelve  ?  "  and  the 
gentleman  turned  to  the  captain,  who  was 
standing  not  far  off,  and  who  gave  no  an- 
swer save  a  rather  surly  nod. 

"Very  well;  this  is  my  address  for  the 
present ;  we  are  but  just  returned  from 
abroad,  and  shall  stay  at  the  Cavendish  till 
my  little  girl  has  quite  recovered ; "  and 
the  gentleman,  scribbling  the  name  of  his 
hotel  on  his  card,  handed  it  to  the  captain, 
saying,  as  he  did  so,  "  The  boy  will  have 


126  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

time  to  think  of  what  I  have  said,  and  you 
will  be  able  to  advise  him.     I  consider  my 
self  under  the  greatest  obligation  to  every 
one  of  you,  and  you  will  find  that  I  shall  be 
ready  to  show  it." 

Another  surly  nod,  and  something  like  a 
little  growl  from  the  captain,  and  the  gen- 
tleman was  gone. 

"  Up  with  sails  now,  boys,  in  quick  time  , 
there's  a  brisk  breeze,  and  we  must  be  off. 
A  fine  gentleman  like  that  doesn't  thint 
that  time  is  money  to  such  as  us." 

"  I  don't  want  nothing  of  the  gentleman," 
said  Robin  suddenly  that  evening,  when  the 
three  were  in  the  cabin,  having  returned  to 
there  old  mooring-place  by  the  wharf.  "  He'a 
squire.  I  know  him  well  enough,  though  he 
don't  take  no  heed  to  me.  He  turned 
father  off ;  and  father,"  and  Robin  lowered 
his  voice,  "  he  burnt  his  ricks." 

The  captain  gave  a  low  whistle.  "  So 
that's  the  time  of  day,  is  it?  I  thought 
you  was  tongue-tied  this  morning.  You 
must  tell  the  Squire  on  Monday,  Robin' 
maybe  he  might  forgive  your  father." 


TEMPTATION.  127 

"  Oh,  do  you  think  he  would?"  and  Robin 
clasped  his  hands  with  eager  hope.  "  But 
he's  a  hard  gentleman,  is  Squire." 

"  Now,  boy,"  said  the  captain,  sitting 
down  and  laying  his  hand  on  Robin's  shoul- 
der as  he  stood  by  his  side,  "  'tisn't  often  I 
trouble  folks  with  my  advice,  but  I've  a  bit 
to  give  you  now.  Be  open  and  above-board 
with  the  gentleman  ;  no  skulking,  mind  ye. 
Say  right  out  whose  son  you  are,  and  maybe 
you'll  have  a  chance  to  get  in  a  word  for 
your  father ;  and  if  so,  don't  you  be  afraid 
of  asking.  'Tis  your  duty.  But  if  not,  and 
seeing  he's  a  hard  man,  as  you  say,  he'll 
likely  not  hearken  to  you.  You  be  guided 
by  me,  and  keep  your  hand  shut  if  he  wants 
to  put  gold  in  it.  Money's  a  good  thing 
boy,  but  'tis  a  better  to  be  able  to  do  a 
brave  thing  for  the  love  of  God,  and  for  its 
own  sake,  and  never  want  to  be  paid." 

Robin's  eyes  lighted  up,  and  he  shut  his 
brown  fist  very  fast,  but  he  said  not  a  word. 

"  I'll  say  a  word  for  you,  Robin,  if  that 
will  help  with  the  Squire,"  went  on  the 


128  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

captain,  kindly.  "  You  tell  him  I'll  go  bail 
for  it  you  are  an  honest  good  lad,  and  there's 
plenty  of  folks  about  the  waterside  will  tell 
him  Captain  Jacobs  don't  give  his  good 
word  for  nought." 

Robin  could  only  mutter  a  "  Thank  you 
kindly,  captain,"  which  seemed  almost  to 
choke  him.  His  heart  was  very  full,  and 
before  he  climbed  into  his  hammock  that 
night  he  thanked  God,  who  had  given  to 
him  —  an  orphan  and  an  outcast,  so  desolate 
but  a  few  months  ago  —  kind  friends  and  a 
safe  home,  where  he  was  being  taught  of 
the  love  of  his  Father  in  heaven. 

Saturday  night  had  come,  and  Robin  with 
a  happy  heart  was  busy  as  usual,  putting 
everything  in  the  lighter  into  perfect  order, 
that  all  might  look  fresh  and  clean  on  Sun- 
day morning,  of  which  he  was  now  begin- 
ning to  think  as  of  the  brightest  day  in  the 
week. 

He  was  singing  to  himself,  as  he  busied 
himself  in  arranging  the  cabin,  one  of  the 
hymns  which  Nicholas  had  taught  him  ;  but 


TEMPTATION.  129 

he  sang  so  softly  that  he  could  plainly  hear 
the  voices  of  the  captain  and  his  son  talking 
on  deck,  where  the  old  man  was  enjoying 
his  pipe,  in  the  mildness  of  the  April 
evening. 

"  Father,"  said  Nicholas,  "  we  musn't  for- 
get that  poor  boy  in  the  hospital :  he  looked 
in  a  bad  way.'* 

"  I've  not  forgot  him,"  said  the  captain, 
gruffly.  Then  in  a  lower  tone,  "  I'd  best 
tell  thee  about  it,  Nicholas,  for  I'm  main 
puzzled  what  to  do :  that  boy  is  a  thief,  I 
tell  you." 

"Oh,  father,  I  do  hope  not:  he  didn't 
seem  like  a  bad  boy." 

"I'm  loath  to  think  it,"  replied  the  old 
man,  sadly  ;  "  but  there  was  a  sovereign  in 
my  pocket  that  night  that  he  slept  in  the 
cabin,  and  come  morning  it  was  gone.  I 
was  an  old  fool  and  worse  to  leave  it  there, 
and  partly  for  that,  and  partly  that,  be  the 
boy  what  he  might,  he  was  ill  and  in  need, 
I  held  my  tongue  and  took  him  to  hospital, 
whether  to  go  and  see  him  Wednesday  — 


130  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

that's  visiting  day  —  and  say  nought  about 
it,  I  don't  know." 

Robin  could  not  listen  any  longer.  All 
the  light  went  out  of  his  face  and  the  glad- 
ness from  his  heart.  The  boy  had  not  taken 
the  sovereign,  of  that  he  felt  sure,  for  had 
he  not  seen  it  when  he  came  into  the  cabin? 
It  had  not  been  there  when  he  came  down 
from  his  work  on  deck,  but  Robin  had  never 
doubted  but  that  the  captain  had  taken  it 
from  the  table,  and  put  it  again  in  his  pocket 
and  now  he  knew  that  it  had  not  been  found. 
The  temptation  to  be  silent  about  what  he 
had  seen  was  very  strong.  The  boy  was  not 
there  to  wake  Robin's  better  feelings  by  the 
sight  of  his  pale  face,  and  his  own  interest 
pleaded  very  strongly.  He  must  lose,  he 
thought,  if  he  spoke,  not  only  Nicholas's 
love  and  the  captain's  newly-given  confi- 
dence, but  also  his  good  word  with  the 
Squire,  and  thus  the  chance  of  winning  for- 
giveness for  his  father.  He  might  even  be 
turned  away  from  his  home  on  the  lighter, 
for  of  course  every  one  would  believe  that 


TEMPTATION.  131 

he  was  a  thief,  if  he  admitted  that  he  had 
slept  in  the  cabin,  and  had  seen  the  sover- 
eign. 

At  any  rate  he  would  not  speak  yet, 
he  thought.  It  was  doing  no  harm  to  be 
silent,  for  the  boy  did  not  know  that  he  was 
suspected,  and  the  captain  could  not  go  to 
the  hospital  before  Wednesday  ;  it  would  be 
all  in  good  time  by-and-by.  But  the  Sunday 
that  was  to  have  been  such  a  happy,  peace- 
ful day,  was  one  of  the  most  miserable  that 
Robin  had  ever  known.  He  felt  guilty  and 
ashamed,  shrinking  away  from  the  kind 
words  and  looks  which  he  felt  he  did  not 
deserve  ;  and  though  he  knew  that  he  was 
entirely  innocent  of  even  wishing  to  take 
the  sovereign,  yet  the  fact  that  he  was  con- 
cealing the  truth  made  him  feel  almost  as 
guilty  as  if  he  had  stolen  it. 

"  So  you  have  to  go  and  see  your  fine 
friends  to-day,  boy,"  said  the  captain  the 
next  morning,  with  a  half-dissatisfied  air; 
"  and  I  can't  say  you  look  best  pleased  with 
the  prospect.  You  must  show  a  brightei 


132  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

face  than  that.  What  maggot  have  you  got 
in  your  head  now  ?  The  Squire  won't  hurt 
you,  and  as  for  the  little  girl,  she'll  be 
pleased  enough  to  see  you,  I'll  go  bail." 

"  I  don't  like  grand  folks,"  answered 
Robin,  hanging  his  head. 

"  Nonsense,  boy,"  said  the  captain,  strik- 
ing his  hand  on  the  table,  "  I  have  no  pa- 
tience with  that  sort  of  talk.  Know  your 
betters,  say  I ;  and  when  a  man  is  older,  and 
stronger,  and  better,  and  higher-learnt  than 
you,  and  when  God  puts  him  above  you, 
then  honor  him  and  do  him  reverence,  and 
show  your  own  self-respect  in  doing  so  ;  but 
no  talk  about  '  grand  folk,'  as  if  you  were 
thinking  of  the  fine  cloth  in  his  coat  or  the 
horses  in  his  carriage." 

"But,"  said  Robin,  rather  alarmed  at  the 
captain's  vehemence,  "you  called  them  'fine 
folk '  yourself  but  a  minute  ago." 

"•  What  I  may  do  and  what  you  may  do,  is 
two  things,"  answered  the  old  man,  laying 
down  this  incontrovertible  position  slowly  ; 
"and  you'll  never  make  a  good  sailor  till 


TEMPTATION.  133 

you  learn  to  take  your  captain's  orders  as  he 
gives  them  ;  and  now  I  must  be  off.  We 
shall  be  alongside  till  eleven  or  nigh  about, 
and  you  must  take  the  boat  when  you  come 
back,  and  make  for  us  at  the  old  place.  I've 
a  heavy  bit  of  work  on  to-day,  so  don't 
loiter." 

At  the  appointed  time  Robin  presented 
himself  timidly  at  the  great  doors  of  the 
hotel,  showing  the  Squire's  card  to  one  of 
the  waiters,  who  handed  him  on  to  another, 
by  whom  he  was  taken  up  a  flight  of  broad 
carpeted  stairs  into  a  large  handsomely  fur- 
nished room,  in  which  he  was  left  standing, 
moving  his  feet  and  arms  uneasily,  as  he  saw 
himself,  his  brown  face  and  curly  hair,  and 
his  best  suit  of  rough  blue  cloth,  reflected 
in  three  or  four  tall  mirrors,  which  seemed 
to  make  the  room  twice  as  large  as  its  real 
size, 

But  at  the  thought  of  his  father,  and  of 
the  errand  on  which  he  had  come,  his  timid- 
ity left  him.  He  forgot  himself,  as  he  re- 
peated over  and  over  the  words  in  which  he 


134  THE  FAITHFUL  SOU. 

had  intended  to  make  his  request  to  the 
Squire. 

Presently  an  inner  door  opened,  and  a 
young  graceful-looking  lady,  whom  Robin 
had  never  seen,  came  towards  him,  and, 
with  a  pleasant  smile,  bid  him  follow  her 
into  a  small  sitting-room  ;  where  on  a  couch, 
lay  the  little  golden-haired  girl  whom  Robin 
had  saved,  the  Miss  Florence  whom  he  had 
seen  so  often  in  old  days,  as  she  rode  through 
the  village  on  her  rough  brown  pony,  her 
long  curls  blowing  behind  her  in  the  wind. 

She  half  raised  herself,  smiling,  and  held 
out  her  little  hand  as  Robin  came  near  ; 
while  the  lady,  who  was,  he  supposed,  the 
Squire's  new  wife  whom  he  married  just 
before  he  went  abroad,  put  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder,  and,  stooping  down,  kissed  him. 
Robin  could  not  remember  that  any  one  had 
ever  kissed  him  before,  except  old  Sally, 
when  he  was  very  small,  and  once  little  Let- 
tice,  when  he  had  saved  the  strawberries  for 
her  sick  brother,  and  the  tears  gathered  in 
Us  eyes  as  he  looked  at  the  lady's  sweet 


135 


face.  She  sat  down  and  drew  him  towards 
her,  keeping  her  hand  on  his  arm.  "  So  you 
are  the  boy  who  saved  my  dear  little  girl  for 
me,"  sne  said  at  last.  "  I  must  thank  you 
for  her,  for  I  do  not  think  she  can  speak  for 
herself." 

"  Miss  Florence  is  kindly  welcome,  ma'am, 
and  I  hope  she  finds  herself  hearty,"  said 
Robin,  looking  towards  the  little  girl  as  he 
spoke. 

"  How  do  you  know  my  name  ?  "  she 
asked,  opening  her  eyes  in  surprise. 

"  If  you  please,  ma'am,"  said  Robin,  turn- 
ing to  the  lady  —  and,  now  that  the  deci- 
sive moment  had  come,  speaking  in  a  sim- 
ple, straightforward  manner  —  "I  know  the 
Squire  and  Miss  Florence  quite  well.  My 
father  lived  on  the  Squire's  place  as  long  as 
ever  I  can  remember." 

"Indeed,"  replied  the  lady,  evidently 
much  surprised  ;  "  but  that  will  only  give 
you  an  added  claim  on  us.  The  Squire  is 
very  anxious  to  do  something  for  you,  to 
show  you  the  gratitude  which  every  one  of 


136  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

us  must  always  feel  to  you ;  and  he  wishes 
us  to  learn  from  you  what  you  would  like 
best.  Whatever  it  is,  I  am  sure  he  will  try 
to  do  it ;  tell  us,  what  would  please  you 
most?" 

"  If  Squire  would  forgive  father,"  said 
Robin,  trying  to  speak  clearly,  but  with  a 
little  sob  of  repressed  feeling.  "  I'm  Robin 
Wallack,  and  father  set  light  to  Squire's 
ricks,  and  he's  gone  away,  and  no  one  knows 
where  he  is;  but  if  Squire  would  forgive 
him,  we  might  be  happy  again.  Oh !  do  ask 
him  for  me :  if  you  and  Miss  Florence  ask 
him,  likely  he'll  say  Yes;"  and  Robin 
clasped  his  hands  in  eager  entreaty. 

A  quick  step,  and  the  Squire  himself,  tall 
and  cold  and  gray,  came  through  the  open 
door,  and  stood  beside  the  group.  "No 
need  to  speak,"  he  said  to  his  wife,  as  she 
turned  towards  him.  "  I  have  heard  what 
the  boy  says,  and  now  let  him  listen  to  my 
answer.  Listen  to  me,  young  Wallack ;  you 
had  my  promise  to  give  you  whatever  you 
asked,  and  I  shall  keep  my  promise,  though 


Introduction  to  Miss  Florence.  —  Page  136. 


TEMPTATION.  137 

you  have  asked  a  harder  thing  than  you 
know." 

"  Thank  you,  Squire,"  began  Robin,  eag- 
erly, but  the  Squire's  uplifted  hand  silenced 
his  eager  speech. 

"  Hear  what  I  say  before  you  answer.  If 
I  forgive  this  man,  what  good  will  it  do 
you  ?  You  do  not  know  where  he  is,  you 
say  ;  he  has  very  likely  left  the  country.  If 
you  could  find  him  he  would  soon  be  in 
fresh  trouble,  and  drag  you  down  with  him ; 
he  has  left  you  —  do  you  leave  him.  For- 
get that  you  had  a  father,"  went  on  the 
Squire,  in  his  cold  hard  tone,  "  and  I  will 
try  and  forget  it  too,  and  only  look  on  you 
as  the  preserver  of  my  child,  and  will  have 
you  taught  a  good  trade ;  or,  if  you  like  a 
sea-going  life,  I  will  get  you  a  good  berth 
and  help  you  on :  or  I  will  put  you  to 
school,  and  give  you  the  education  by  which 
you  may  rise  in  the  world.  But  under- 
stand, young  Wallack,  if  you  find  your 
father,  and  live  with  him,  I  do  nothing  more 
for  you  than  what  you  have  asked ;  that  is, 


138  THE  FAITHFUL  SOtf. 

to  drop  all  proceedings  against  him,  and  give 
him  the  chance  of  setting  fire  to  some  one's 
else  ricks  elsewhere." 

For  one  moment  Robin  hesitated ;  the 
promise  of  the  means  of  getting  a  good  ed- 
ucation was  a  great  and  real  temptation ; 
but  it  was  only  for  a  moment,  and  almost  as 
the  Squire  ended  came  Robin's  ready  an- 
swer. 

"I  can't  give  up  father,"  he  said.  "  Oh, 
ma'am,  if  I  could  only  find  him  I  could  tell 
him  what  they've  learnt  me  out  of  the 
Book,  for  he  didn't  know  anything  about 
it ;  and  I  think  he  wouldn't  have  done  it, 
Squire,  if  he  had ;  and  maybe  he  would  be 
a  good  man,  and  that  would  be  best  of 
all." 

"  And  how  do  you  mean  to  set  to  work  to 
find  your  father  ?  "  said  the  lady,  gently,  for 
the  Squire  had  turned  away  as  if  in  anger. 

"  Captain  said  as  it  could  be  put  in  the 
papers  that  if  he  would  come  back  he 
wouldn't  be  put  in  prison,"  said  Robin, 
vaguely.  "  And  there's  a  man  as  goes 


TEMPTATION.  139 

tibout  the  country  —  a  packman,  you  know 
—  has  promised  to  look  out  for  him,"  he 
went  on,  more  hopefully,  this  seeming  to 
him  a  much  better  chance  than  the  myste- 
rious papers. 

"  I  shall  make  it  my  business  to  see  the 
captain,  young  Wallack,"  said  the  Squire, 
turning  from  the  window,  "  and  if  he  gives 
you  a  good  character  for  steadiness  and  hon- 
esty, then,  for  your  sake,  and  for  what  you 
have  done  for  my  child,  I  will  forgive  your 
father.  You  can  try  any  means  in  your 
power  to  find  him,  and  if  he's  not  heard  of, 
we'll  say  in  six  months,  I  will  give  you  the 
chance  once  more  of  doing  better  for  your- 
self in  any  of  the  ways  I  have  named. 
Come,  is  it  a  bargain  ?  You  are  a  foolish 
fellow,  but  I  believe  you  mean  to  be  a  good 
boy." 

Robin  could  hardly  believe  it  when  the 
stern-looking  Squire,  of  whom  he  had  stood 
in  awe  all  his  life,  patted  him  kindly  on  the 
shoulder,  while  the  lady  bade  him  good-bye 
v  th  one  of  her  gentle  smiles :  and  little 


140  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

Miss  Florence,  beckoning  him  to  the  side 
of  the  sofa,  put  her  soft  little  arms  round 
his  neck  and  whispered  to  him,  "  Oh,  I  do 
hope  you  will  find  your  father.  I  shall  ask 
God  in  my  prayers  every  night  to  send  him 
to  you." 

"  Tell  the  captain  I  shall  come  to  him  for 
a  character,"  said  the  Squire,  as  Robin 
turned  at  the  door  to  make  his  best  bow. 


CHAPTER  X. 

A  WAY  TO  ESCAPE. 

[E  Squire's  last  words  were  sound- 
ing in  Robin's  ears  through  all  the 
noises  of  the  busy  London  streets. 
He  heard  them  as,  trusted  for  the  first  time 
alone  with  the  boat,  he  pulled  slowly  and 
timidly  down  to  the  place  where  the  lighter 
was  anchored,  by  the  side  of  the  larger 
vessel  whose  cargo  she  was  receiving.  As 
he  ran  hither  and  thither  about  his  work, 
obeying  the  captain's  quick,  sharp  orders, 
his  mind  was  still  arguing  with  itself  as  to 
whether  he  should  or  should  not  tell  that  he 
had  seen  the  sovereign  j  whether  he  should 

141 


142  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

run  the  risk  that  the  captain  might  believe 
him  a  thief,  and  refuse  to  give  the  good 
character  to  the  Squire  on  which  hung  the 
chance  of  his  father's  safety. 

"  I  wouldn't  tell  a  lie,  not  for  anything," 
said  Robin,  half  aloud  ;  "  but  I  don't  see 
why  I  need  to  speak  at  all." 

Yet  even  as  he  said  this  he  was  not  satis- 
fied, and  went  on  arguing  with  himself;  "If 
it  was  anything  plain,  like  taking  Squire's 
apples  when  Jonas  asked  me,  I'd  never  even 
give  it  a  thought ;  but  there's  nothing  about 
this  in  the  commandments,  I  reckon ;  "  and 
half  unconsciously  he  began  to  repeat  to 
himself  the  well-known  words. 

Before  he  had  quite  reached  the  end  he 
suddenly  stopped.  What  were  the  words 
he  was  saying  to  himself  so  carelessly? 
"  Thou  shalt  not  bear  false  witness  against 
thy  neighbor."  He  knew  what  they  meant, 
for  Nicholas  had  explained  them  to  him  long 
ago. 

"  That's  just  what  I  say,"  he  muttered, 
trying  hard  to  put  away  the  real  teaching 


A  WAY  TO  ESCAPE.  143 

from  him ;  "  that  only  means  you  shouldn't 
say  what  isn't  true  about  any  one,  and  1 
don't  mean  to.  It  doesn't  say  a  word  about 
getting  yourself  suspected  of  what  you 
never  did."  But  there  were  other  words 
repeating  themselves  in  his  ears  —  words  by 
which  Nicholas  had  taught  him  to  under- 
stand the  true  inner  meaning  of  the  com- 
mandment, "  Thou  shalt  love  thy  neighbor 
as  thyself." 

"  I  must  do  it,"  he  said  at  last,  aloud : 
*'  I  must  tell  the  truth,  and  take  the  chance 
of  what  will  happen.  Day  after  to-morrow 
is  Wednesday,  and  if  captain  keeps  away 
from  the  boy,  or  goes,  thinking  him  a  thief, 
it  will  be  my  fault,  and  I  couldn't  stand 
that.  For  certain  sure  if  I  loved  that  boy 
—  and  he's  one  of  my  neighbors,  I  take  it  — 
as  I  love  myself,  I  shouldn't  let  him  be  called 
a  thief,  when  a  word  from  me  might  clear 
him." 

"  Well,  boy,  what  did  the  gentleman  say 
about  your  father  ?  "  asked  the  captain  at 
last,  as,  wiping  his  hot  forehead  with  his 


144  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

sleeve,  he  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  a  bale  of 

goods,    to  drink  a   cup   of    hot  tea  which 

Nicholas  had  prepared. 

"  He'll  look  over  it,  he  says,"  answered 

Robin,  and  his  heart  beat  fast  as  he  spoke, 

"  if  you'll  give  me  a  good  word." 

"I'll  give  you  that,"   said  the   captain, 

heartily,   striking   Robin    on    the    shoulder 

with  one  of  his  rough  horny  hands.     "  You 

are  a    steady,  honest,   truth-speaking    lad. 

I'll  go  bail." 

"  I  want  to  be,"  answered  Robin,  and  his 

lip  trembled.    «*  But  I  didn't  tell  you  before. 

I  know  it  wasn't  that  boy  in  the  hospital 
that  took  the  sovereign,  for  he  slept  best 
part  of  the  night  in  my  hammock,  and  I  had 
the  rug :  and  before  I  went  off  to  sleep  I  saw 
the  sovereign  on  the  floor,  shining,  and  I 
picked  it  up  and  put  it  on  the  table,  so  as 
you  might  find  it,  come  morning  ;  and  I  took 
no  more  thought  the  boy  had  liaken  it,  and  I 
knew  he  hadn't  been  in  the  cabin  since  I 
put  it  safe  on  the  table ;"  and  Robin  paused, 
his  voice  shaking  with  the  effort  he  had 
made. 


A  WAY  TO  ESCAPE.  146 

He  did  not  look  up,  so  he  could  not  see 
the  smile  on  the  old  man's  face ;  he  only 
heard  his  stern  voice  in  which  he  said, 
"And  why  did  not  you  tell  me  this  before?" 

"  I  was  afraid  you  would  think  I  had  took 
it,"  stammered  Robin ;  "  and  oh,  indeed, 
indeed  captain,  I  never  so  much  as  give  it  a 
thought  to  touch  it." 

"  Look  here,  Robin,"  said  the  old  man,  and 
his  voice  was  not  stern  now,  "  do  you  see 
this?"  and  he  took  from  his  waistcoat 
pocket  a  gold  sovereign,  which  he  held  up 
between  his  finger  and  thumb.  "  Here  is 
the  sovereign,  safe  enough,  as  you  would 
have  known  if  you  had  spoken  the  truth  at 
once." 

"  I  do  so  wish  I  had ;  I've  been  so  misera- 
ble," said  Robin.  "  But  who  had  it,  captain, 
all  the  time  ?  " 

"  It  was  Saturday  night,  when  you  were 
snug  in  your  hammock,  I  said  to  Nicholas, 
'  Before  I  set  that  unfortunate  lad  down  for 
a  thief,  I'll  at  least  do  like  the  woman  in  the 
parable:  I'll  light  a  candle  and  sweep  the 


146  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

house.'  No  sooner  said  than  done.  I  swept 
and  I  looked,  this  way  and  that,  here  and 
there;  and  at  last  sure  enough  I  saw  the 
money,  just  the  bit  of  gold  edge  sticking 
out  of  a  crack  in  the  floor,  and  says  I,  *  As 
sure  as  my  name  is  "  Captain  Jacobs,"  I'll 
do  something  for  that  poor  boy,  that's  no 
more  a  thief  than  I  am.' " 

Robin's  heart  felt  so  light  that  he  couldn't 
stay  to  drink  his  tea,  nor  eat  more  than  a 
mouthful  of  the  huge  slice  of  bread  and 
butter  which  had  been  cut  for  him.  The 
captain  said  he  did  as  much  work  as  any  two 
boys  that  evening,  and  could  hardly  be  per- 
suaded to  stop,  even  when  it  was  fully  tune 
for  supper,  and  the  evening  prayer,  which 
always  closed  the  day. 

Once,  as  he  lay  awake,  the  thought  did 
cross  his  mind,  "  I  need  not  have  told,  after 
all ;  no  one  would  have  been  the  worse  ! ' 
But  he  knew  it  was  not  a  true  thought, 
he  knew  that  he  himself  should  have  been 
the  worse,  that  the  effort  to  do  right,  because 
Christ  had  bidden  him,  had  brought  with  it 


A  WAY  TO  ESCAPE.  14* 

comfort  and  peace,  had   drawn  hia    closer 
to  the  Saviour  who  loved  him. 

There  were  thoughts  and  hopes  in  his 
heart  that  he  had  not  known  befort,  peace 
as  of  a  child  that  is  soothed  by  its  mother's 
tenderness ;  and  as  he  lay  listening  to  the 
wash  of  the  water  against  the  side  of  the 
boat,  and  the  cries  and  voices  and  the  splash 
of  oars  in  the  darkness,  he  heard,  below 
them  all,  speaking  as  to  his  very  heart,  his 
Master's  words  :  "  If  ye  keep  my  command' 
ments,  ye  shall  abide  in  my  love." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

CHRISTMAS   AT  THE  OLD   HALL. 

jORE  than  five  years  had  passed 
since  little  Robin  Wallack  had 
crept  away,  lonely  and  broken- 
hearted, from  the  fast-locked  door  of  the 
cottage  which  had  been  his  home  ever  since 
he  could  remember;  but  time,  which  had 
changed  so  many  things,  seemed  almost  to 
have  forgotten  to  touch  the  woods  and  fields 
he  so  well  remembered.  There  was  a  closer 
growth  of  golden  lichens  and  star-moss  on 
the  brown  thatch  ;  and  the  rose  by  the  door 
was  thicker,  and  not  so  carefully  trained 
perhaps  as  in  the  days  when  Robin's  little 

148 


CHEI3TMAS  AT  THE  OLD  HALL.        149 

brown  fingers  had  twisted  every  tendril,  and 
touched  each  bud  as  it  opened. 

But  even  this  would  not  be  noticed  now, 
for  the  roses  had  long  since  drifted  away  in 
the  keen  autumn  wind ;  the  stems  were  bare 
of  leaves,  and  all  their  outline  was  traced  in 
a  delicate  network  of  glittering  frost  over 
the  time-stained  cottage  wall.  The  frost 
was  marking,  too,  every  delicate  spray  and 
cone  of  the  fir  trees,  as  they  lifted  their  tall 
heads  against  a  blue  sky,  glittering  with 
almost  the  keenness  of  steel,  silvering  the 
thatch  of  the  farm  outside  the  wood  where 
the  firs  had  been,  and  making  the  gables 
and  projecting  eaves  of  the  Hall  look  like 
parts  of  some  fairy  palace. 

A  red  flag  was  flying  in  the  keen  wind, 
from  a  staff  fixed  on  the  roof  of  the  Hall,  for 
at  last  the  Squire  had  come  back  to  the  old 
place;  and  the  house  was  full  of  guests, 
merry  parties  riding  through  the  woods,  01 
skating  on  the  round  pond,  and  making  the 
house  ring  with  song  and  laughter.  There 
will  not  have  been  such  a  gay  Christmas  ID 


150  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

the  village  since  the  Squire  came  of  age. 
For  Christmas  is  near  now,  and  the  holly- 
berries  are  bright  and  red  amongst  their 
shining  leaves,  especially  on  one  tall  tree, 
which  grows  so  close  to  the  library  window 
that,  as  the  wind  waves  the  boughs  to  and 
fro,  the  stiff  spiked  leaves  make  a  strange 
sharp  sound,  like  a  little  cry,  as  they  scratch 
against  the  glass. 

Robin  Wallack  hears,  though  he  scarcely 
notices,  the  sound,  as  he  stands  within  the 
library  this  December  morning,  listening  to 
the  Squire,  who,  white-headed  now,  and 
just  a  little  bent,  is  seated  opposite  to  him 
in  his  large  study  chair. 

"  You  are  grown  a  fine  strong  young  fel- 
low," said  the  Squire,  with  something  like  a 
sigh,  as  he  glances  at  his  own  shrunken 
limbs,  and  thinks  perhaps  for  a  moment  of 
that  son  whose  grave  is  in  a  foreign  land, 
and  who  might,  if  he  had  lived,  have  been 
such  a  stalwart  lad  as  the  young  man  before 
him.  At  the  sigh,  Miss  Florence,  who  is 
seated  in  a  low  chair  by  the  fire,  lifts  her 


CHBISTMA8  AT  THE  OLD  HALL.       151 

blue  eyes  and  looks  tenderly  at  her  father  ; 
and  Robin  sees  again  for  the  first  time,  after 
nearly  five  years,  the  face  of  the  little  girl 
whom  he  had  saved.  He  had  always  thought 
of  her  as  he  saw  her  in  her  little  blue  cloak, 
sinking  in  the  water,  or  lying  pale  and  smil- 
ing on  the  couch  in  her  mother's  room  ;  and 
he  had  remembered  through  all  these  years 
the  words  in  which  she  had  promised  to  ask 
God  that  his  father  might  be  restored  to 
him. 

Robin  felt  sure  she  had  not  forgotten  her 
promise,  though  it  seemed  as  if  the  prayer 
had  been  unheard ;  and  as  he  looked  at  her, 
and  thought  how  often  her  words  had  com- 
forted and  cheered  him,  he  almost  forgot  the 
present,  and  started,  as  if  with  surprise, 
when  the  Squire,  rousing  himself  from  his 
sad  thoughts,  spoke  again. 

"  It  is  time  we  should  think  now  of  what 
use  we  should  make  of  your  education,"  he 
said.  "  I  am  quite  satisfied  with  what  I 
hear  and  see  of  your  diligence  and  progress, 
and  I  don't  doubt  that  you'll  be  able  to 


152  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

make  your  way  in  the  world.  You  are 
now  —  let  me  see,  what  is  your  age  ?  " 

"  Seventeen  this  month,"  answered  Robin, 
drawing  himself  to  his  full  height,  and 
speaking  in  a  clear,  manly  voice  ;  "  and  in- 
deed, sir,  'tis  the  greatest  favor  you  could 
do  me,  to  add  to  all  your  great  kindness 
your  advice  as  to  my  future  life.  I  ought 
to  be  working  for  myself  now.  I  can  never 
repay  your  goodness,  but  I  long  to  be  able 
to  show  that  it  has  not  been  quite  thrown 
away." 

The  Squire  smiled  at  the  boyish  speech 
and  the  boyish  action  with  which  Robin 
lifted  his  strong  young  arm,  as  if  longing  to 
cut  his  way  through  every  kind  of  obstacle  ; 
but  he  answered  kindly,  "  My  advice  must 
depend  partly  on  your  own  inclinations. 
You  have  given  up  the  idea  of  a  sea-going 
life,  I  know.  Tell  me  what  it  is  you  have 
in  your  mind." 

"  Well,  Squire,"  said  Robin,  falling  back 
to  the  old  form  of  address,  and  hesitating  a 
little,  "  you  see  I've  more  than  myself  to 
think  for ;  there's  Nicholas." 


CHRISTMAS   AT  THE  OLD   HALL.        153 

"Nicholas,"  repeated  the  Squire,  in  a 
tone  of  perplexity.  "I  never  knew  you 
had  a  brother;  I  don't  understand." 

"  He's  not  my  brother  exactly,  though 
he's  like  one ;  he's  the  old  captain's  son 
that  took  care  of  me,  you  know ;  and  cap- 
tain is  dead,  and  Nicholas  and  I  we  kind 
of  hold  together,"  said  Robin,  stammering 
and  confused,  and  falling  back  into  his  old 
country  speech. 

"  And  you  don't  want  to  be  parted  from 
your  friend  ?  What  is  his  trade  —  a  lighter- 
man, like  his  father  ?  " 

"  No,  sir ;  he's  not  strong  enough  for  that. 
He's  a  bit  lame,  is  Nicholas,  and  weakly, 
and  can't  do  any  regular  work.  He  has  his 
father's  savings,  but  that's  not  much  ;  and 
he  copies  writings,  and  teaches  the  boys 
about.  But  he  don't  get  much  for  that, 
and  when  he's  sick  and  laid  up,  as  he  is  at 
times,  he  would  be  likely  to  miss  me,  sir, 
being  used  to  me  so  long." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  ohe  Squire,  shaking 
his  head  a  little  impatiently,  "  you  have 


154  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

some  plan  in  your  head,  I  see.  Speak  out, 
and  let  me  know  what  you  do  wish." 

"  If  I  could  be  a  schoolmaster,"  said  Rob- 
in, bringing  it  out  with  a  great  effort,  and 
turning  very  red.  "  I  know  enough  to  pass 
their  examinations,  I  think ;  and  though  I'm 
only  seventeen,  I  look  a  deal  older;  and 
Nicholas  having  the  boys  about  him  so 
much,  I'm  used  to  them,  and  bound  to  get 
along  with  them,  and  get  them  on ;  and 
then  "  —  and  he  hurried  out  the  words,  as 
if  fearing  disappointment  before  he  had 
shown  all  the  advantages  of  his  plan  — 
"we  could  find  some  little  place  where  he 
and  I  could  live  together,  and  Nicholas 
would  get  them  on  finely  with  their  music." 

"  I  cannot  say  this  was  what  I  expected. 
I  thought  you  would  be  more  ambitious. 
You  are  choosing  a  path  that  leads  nowhere. 
Have  you  thought  of  it  well  ?  " 

"  It  seems  most  like  my  duty,  of  anything 
[  can  think  of,"  answered  Robin,  simply ; 
"and  if  so,  sir,  the  path  will  lead  right, 
won't  it?" 


OHBISTMAS  AT  THE  OLD  TTAT.T..       155 

"  Then  it's  not  the  teaching  itself  you 
care  about,  eh?"  and  the  Squire  looked 
keenly  into  Robin's  open  face. 

"I  can't  say  it  is,  sir,"  replied  Robin, 
smiling.  "  But  what  else  could  I  do,  sir, 
and  keep  Nicholas  with  me?  " 

A  smile  of  intelligence  passed  between 
Miss  Florence  and  her  father,  as  he  said, 
"  Come,  now,  I've  heard  your  plan,  and  it's 
time  you  should  hear  mine.  What  do  you 
say  to  living  in  your  old  cottage  (it's  empty 
just  now),  and  spending  your  days  up  here, 
writing  for  me,  and  doing  many  things  that 
I  find  myself  too  feeble  to  undertake  now  ? 
The  property  is  large,  and  requires  much 
management ;  and  now  that  I  have  parted 
with  Mr.  Pierson,  I  intend,  for  a  time  at 
least,  to  be  my  own  bailiff;  but  I  need  a 
young  active  fellow  like  you  to  go  about  for 
me,  and  take  some  of  the  routine  part  off 
my  hands.  Your  friend  could  live  with  you, 
and  though  I  don't  promise  you  high  pay 
at  first,  yet  living  is  cheap  in  the  country, 
and  you'll  not  find  it  hard  to  manage." 


156  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

"  Oh,  papa,"  broke  in  Miss  Florence's 
eager  voice,  "  it  is  just  right !  We  want 
some  one  to  play  the  harmonium,  and  help 
with  the  choir,  so  much.  Nicholas  will  be 
the  very  person." 

"I  leave  all  that  to  you,  pussy,"  said  the 
father,  smiling.  "  Now,  Wallack,  what  do 
you  think  of  my  plan?  Answer  carefully, 
and  bear  this  in  mind  —  it  leads  somewhere. 
You  will  be  learning,  and  fitting  yourself 
for  some  post  of  trust  in  the  future." 

Robin  had  listened  respectfully,  the  color 
mounting  in  his  cheeks  with  surprise  and 
pleasure,  and  now,  in  simple  words,  trem- 
bling with  the  feeling  he  could  not  other- 
wise express,  he  at  once,  and  thankfully, 
accepted  the  Squire's  kind  and  generous 
offer. 

"  You  will  like  to  live  in  your  old  cot- 
tage again,  Robin  ? "  said  Miss  Florence, 
presently. 

"Indeed  I  shall,  Miss  Florence.  Tis 
most  like  home  to  me  of  any  place  in  the 
world,  and"  —  his  voice  sinking  almost  to  a 


CHRISTMAS   AT   THE   OLD   TTAT.T..        157 

whisper  — "  father  is  more  likely  to  come 
there  than  anywhere." 

He  hardly  knew  that  he  spoke  aloud,  but 
the  Squire  had  caught  the  words,  and 
looked  stern  and  displeased. 

"  I  hoped  that  boyish  folly  was  forgotten 
Wallack,"  he  said.  "  If  your  father  is  not 
dead,  he  has  deserted  you  so  long  that  he 
has  lost  all  claim  upon  you  as  his  son.  Re- 
member this  —  the  offer  which  I  have  just 
made  to  you  is  made  on  the  distinct  under- 
standing that  you  have  no  communication 
with  your  father." 

"  Tis  better  than  five  years  since  I  heard 
a  word  about  him,"  replied  Robin,  sadly. 

"  But  if  you  should  do  so,  you  must  re- 
member you  will  have  to  choose  between 
what  you  mistakenly  call  your  duty  to  him 
and  your  post  here  with  me.  I  could  not 
have  your  father  living  in  my  cottage,  and 
with  one  trusted  and  employed  by  me. 
You  will  remember  that." 

"I  shall  not  forget,  sir,"  replied  Robin, 
firmly,  but  his  hopeful  gladness  was  gone ; 


158  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

and  he  was  relieved  when  a  message  called 
the  Squire  away,  and  he  could  make  his  bow 
to  Miss  Florence,  whose  face  had  grown 
grave  and  sad  as  she  listened  to  her  father's 
words.  He  was  just  turning  to  go  away, 
when  she  called  him  back,  and  said,  with 
some  little  hesitation,  "  Don't  give  up  pray- 
ing for  your  father.  Of  course  my  father 
knows  best  what  it  is  right  for  him  to  do  ; 
but  to  win  your  father  back,  to  see  him  a 
good  man,  would  be  worth  more  than  to 
succeed,  to  grow  rich,  or  even  to  be  looked 
up  to  and  thought  well  of.  Would  it  not?  " 

Miss  Florence's  words  had  brought  back 
peace  and  calm  to  Robin's  troubled  thoughts, 
and  as  he  made  his  way  by  the  familiar  field 
paths  to  the  pine  wood  and  the  old  cottage, 
all  his  doubts  and  uncertainty  seemed  to 
have  left  him.  Yes,  it  should  still  be  his 
most  earnest  prayer,  his  first  aim,  that  hia 
father  might  be  restored. 

His  thoughts  travelled  back  through  the 
years,  he  recalled  the  months  of  anxious 
waiting  when  every  effort  had  been  made, 


CHRISTMAS  AT  THE   OLD   HAT.T,.        169 

but  made  iii  vain,  to  learn  whither  his  father 
had  fled ;  and  the  hope  and  fear  with  which 
he  had  looked  into  the  face  of  any  stranger 
loitering  near  the  barge,  and  who  might 
be  perhaps  the  one  for  whose  coming  he 
so  earnestly  longed.  The  hope  had  been 
laid  aside,  but  never  forgotten,  during  the 
months  and  years  of  training  and  learning 
which  had  followed;  and  now,  with  hi? 
future  before  him,  his  boyhood  passing  into 
the  strength  and  hope  of  young  manhood, 
it  was  still  his  most  fervent  prayer,  his  most 
earnest  desire.  And  yet  the  boyish  trust  in 
his  father,  the  child's  undoubting  love,  had 
long  since  passed :  it  could  not  be  otherwise. 
Robin  saw  him  now  with  clearer  eyes,  a 
man  selfish,  hard,  violent,  who  had  left  in 
his  mind  no  memory  of  tender  words  or 
kindly  acts.  He  knew  all  this  ;  but  he  was 
still  his  father,  the  only  being  in  the  world 
to  whom  he  was  bound  by  ties  of  kinship. 
His  father  had  lived  without  God,  but  if 
even  now  he  could  be  taught  of  the  Love 
which  was  waiting  for  him,  and  seeking 


160  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

him,  surely  he  would  listen  and  turn.  To 
tend  him  in  feebleness  and  old  age,  to  work 
for  him,  to  love  him,  and  thus  to  be  able  to 
lead  him  back  to  the  Father  whom  he  had 
forsaken,  this  indeed  would  be  worth  living 
'for. 

But  this  earnest  hope  and  prayer  need  not 
prevent  him  from  accepting  the  Squire's 
offered  kindness.  Nay,  with  his  heart  at 
rest  as  to  what  should  be  his  choice  did  God 
at  last  send  to  him  his  father,  he  was  more 
able  to  dwell  on  the  pleasant  prospect  which 
seemed  now  opening  before  him. 

He  had  reached  the  old  cottage  now,  and 
began  to  think  with  delight  how  soon  he 
might  be  showing  to  Nicholas  the  dear  home 
about  which  he  had  so  often  talked  to  him  : 
how  he  looked  up  at  the  little  window 
among  the  bare  rose-stalks,  and  wondered 
if  old  Grip  would  know  his  home  again. 

The  days  passed  on,  Robin  had  begun  his 
new  work,  and  was  giving  great  satisfaction 
to  the  Squire,  who  found  him  quick,  dili- 
gent, and  intelligent,  while  Robin  on  his 


CHBISTMAS  AT  THE  OLD  TTAT.T,.        161 

part  was  delighted  at  the  idea  of  being  of 
service  to  his  benefactor.  He  was  settled 
now  in  his  cottage,  the  Squire  having  ad- 
vanced him  money  to  buy  a  few  plain  arti- 
cles of  furniture,  and  on  Christmas  Eve 
Nicholas  was  to  arrive.  He  would  come  by 
coach  as  far  as  the  village,  and  Robin  had 
promised  to  meet  him  there,  and  bring  him 
home.  He  must  set  off  through  the  wood 
now  in  a  few  minutes,  and  how  happy  he 
felt  as  he  looked  round  the  little  room,  and 
pictured  the  delight  of  seating  Nicholas 
in  the  one  cushioned  chair  which  he  had 
bought  on  purpose  for  his  use,  and  of  seeing 
his  wonder  and  delight  at  the  pleasant  pine- 
wood  fire  which  threw  its  changing,  flashing 
light  on  the  bunches  of  shining  leaves  and 
glowing  berries  with  which  Robin  had 
dressed  the  walls.  How  pleasant  and  home- 
like it  all  looked.  There,  on  a  shelf  which 
he  had  sawn  and  planed  with  his  own  hand, 
was  his  little  store  of  books ;  on  that  small 
deal  table  could  stand  Nicholas's  desk ;  and 
Nicholas  was  so  clever  too,  he  would  think 


162  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

of  all  manner  of  little  things  which  they 
could  do  to  improve  the  cottage.  And 
when  summer  came,  how  he  would  delight 
to  train  the  roses  by  the  window,  and  tie 
up  the  bright  carnations,  which  Robin  al- 
ready fancied  that  he  saw  growing  before 
the  door.  In  the  evenings  they  would  sit 
in  the  garden  together  and  read,  or  wander 
sometimes  up  and  down  under  the  pine 
trees.  How  wonderful  the  forest  would 
seem  to  Nicholas,  who  had  seen  so  few  trees 
in  his  life. 

Robin  had  no  clock  in  his  cottage,  and  he 
could  only  judge  by  the  gathering  darkness 
that  the  time  was  come  when  he  must  set 
out  to  meet  his  friend.  "  Better  wait  a  lit- 
tle," he  said  to  himself,  "  than  keep  him 
waiting,  poor  fellow.  He'll  be  half  frozen 
with  the  cold,  as  it  is ;  that  old  coat  of  hia 
won't  be  much  good  on  such  a  night  as  this." 

With  one  more  glance  at  the  glowing  fire, 
Robin  was  gone,  shutting  the  door  closely  aa 
he  stood  without  in  the  dusk  of  the  winter 
afternoon.  It  was  past  four,  and  nearly 
dark  in  the  shade  of  the  wood. 


CHBISTMAS  AT  THE  OLD  HALL.       163 

"  How  strange  it  will  all  seem  to  Nicho- 
las," thought  Robin,  as  he  walked  on,  whist- 
ling softly  to  himself,  and  making  his  way 
with  quick,  sure  step,  through  the  narrow 
dark  paths,  where  his  feet  crushed  at  every 
step  the  crisp  and  frosted  snow.  "  The 
shadows,  and  the  white  snow,  and  this  dim 
light  make  it  seem  like  a  new  place  to  me, 
who  know  it  so  well.  The  old  stump  looks 
almost  like  a  man,  but  what  an  absurd  idea 
to  suppose  any  one  would  be  sitting  in  the 
snow  on  a  night  like  this ; "  and  Robin 
laughed  a  little. 

Grip,  almost  toothless  now,  and  nearly 
blind,  was  walking  slowly  behind  his  master, 
his  head  hanging  down ;  but  he  too  seemed 
to  share  his  master's  thought  about  the  old 
stump,  for  suddenly  he  ran  towards  it,  giv- 
ing one  or  two  sharp  barks  of  excitement. 

"  Poor  fellow,  his  sight  and  smell  are  both 
nearly  gone,"  said  Robin.  "  Here,  Grip, 
Grip,  my  boy,  come  back ;  we  are  going  to 
see  Nicholas.  You'll  bark  then  to  some  pur- 
pose, won't  you  ?  '* 


164  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

But  Grip  would  not  come.  He  was  run- 
ning round  and  round  the  old  stump,  his 
nose  in  the  snow,  wagging  the  remains  of  his 
tail  with  furious  energy,  but  whining  pite- 
ously  from  time  to  time,  as  if  in  doubt  or 
distress. 

One,  two,  three,  four,  five  strokes  rang 
slowly  from  the  great  clock  over  the  stables 
at  the  Hall ;  the  coach  was  in  then,  and 
Nicholas  would  be  waiting.  Robin  began  to 
run,  calling  again  to  Grip  to  follow  him. 
This  time  the  dog  obeyed,  but,  to  his  mas- 
ter's surprise,  he  ran  before  him  and  planted 
himself  in  the  way,  looking  up  with  appeal- 
ing eyes,  and  a  deprecating  movement  of  his 
tail,  as  if  to  beg  for  help. 

"  Out  of  the  way,  good  dog,"  cried  Robin, 
but  Grip  would  not  move ;  and  when  his 
master  tried  to  pass  him,  the  dog  seized  his 
clothes,  and  held  him  as  fast  as  he  could 
with  his  toothless  jaws. 

In  vain  Robin  tried,  by  coaxing  and  threat- 
ening, to  make  him  loose  his  hold.  Grip 
was  drawing  him  with  all  his  strength  to- 


CHRISTMAS  AT  THE  OLD  HALL.       165 

wards  the  old  stump,  and  his  master  could 
not  free  himself  without  more  violence  than 
he  liked  to  use  towards  his  old  and  faithful 
companion.  It  would  be  quicker,  after  all, 
to  go  with  the  dog,  he  thought ;  and  Grip, 
as  if  understanding  his  thought,  released 
his  coat,  and  ran  before  him  to  where  the 
dark  form  showed  amidst  the  snow.  Did  it 
move  a  little  as  they  came  near  ?  Robin  al- 
most thought  so,  and  his  heart  beat  quicker 
as  he  bent  down  and  touched  —  not  the  hard 
rough,  hard  bark  of  a  tree,  but  something 
that  shrank  away  from  the  grasp  of  his  hand. 
What  was  it,  that  brought  before  him,  as 
in  a  dream,  that  scene  five  years  ago  by  the 
river  side,  when  Nicholas  and  the  old  cap- 
tain had  found  and  saved  the  poor  sailor 
boy  ?  That  made  him  sure  at  once  that  he 
was  standing  beside  a  living  human  form, 
even  before  he  heard  the  low  sob  or  sigh  a«. 
of  one  suffering,  yet  too  weak  to  speak 
which  thrilled  through  him  as  he  knelt  ojv 
the  snow  He  had  forgotten  Nicholas  now  > 
he  could  think  of  nc  ^h?n^  hu^  th«  life  voi^b 
he  migh*  ys(  SPY» 


166  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

"  Please  God,  I  am  in  time,"  he  muttered, 
aud  in  his  heart  the  words  were  said  as  a 
prayer.  He  passed  his  hands  over  the  chilled 
limbs,  that  seemed  screened  from  the  bitter 
cold  only  by  a  few  scanty  rags,  and  chafed 
the  almost  lifeless  fingers. 

"  Can  you  move  ?  Can  you  stand  ?  "  he 
asked,  speaking  in  a  loud,  clear  voice,  the 
better  to  reach  the  dull  sense  of  the  poor  suf- 
ferer ;  but  there  was  no  answer  save  a  feeble 
groan. 

"  There  is  no  time  to  be  lost,"  thought 
Robin.  "  If  I  run  to  the  village  for  help,  he 
may  be  dead  before  I  get  back.  If  he  could 
only  move  a  little,  I  could  almost  carry  him 
to  the  cottage.  We  must  try;"  and  once 
more  kneeling  on  the  snow,  he  passed  his 
strong  young  arm  under  the  prostrate  form, 
and  tried  to  raise  it.  The  man  —  for  Robin 
could  see  that  it  was  an  old  feeble  man  over 
whom  he  was  stooping  —  seemed  to  under- 
stand what  his  helper  was  trying  to  do,  and 
made  some  effort  to  rise,  but  sank  down  ex- 
hausted. 


An  Unexpected  Discovery.  —  Page  166. 


CHBI8TMAS  AT  THE  OLD  TTAT,T..         167 

"  I  must  get  help,"  said  Robin,  aloud.  "  I 
will  not  be  long.  Here,  wrap  this  round  you 
while  I  am  gone  ;  "  and  Robin  pulled  off  his 
thick  coat,  and  put  it  over  the  old  man's 
shoulders. 

Was  that  a  step  on  the  soft  snow  ?  Was 
that  some  one  moving  among  the  trees? 
Why  did  Grip  run  backward  and  forward, 
as  if  uncertain  whether  to  greet  the  new- 
comer or  to  remain  with  his  master?  WTiose 
familiar  touch  was  this  on  Robin's  shoulder  ? 

"  Oh,  Nicholas,  is  it  really  you  ?  "  cried 
Robin.  "  You  are  just  in  time,  you  will 
help  me.  See,  this  old  man  is  half-dead 
with  cold,  he  can  hardly  move;  but  now 
there  are  two  of  us  we  can  get  him  safe  to 
the  cottage.  You  take  this  arm  and  I  the 
other ;  now,  once,  twice,  thrice ;  there,  it  is 
done  ;  "  and  the  old  man  was  standing  at 
last,  almost  supported  in  the  arms  of  his 
new  friends. 

Very  slowly,  with  many  a  halt,  they  led 
him  to  the  cottage.  The  movement  was 
bringing  a  little  warmth  into  his  stiffened 


168  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

limbs,  and  when  at  last  they  came  in  sight 
of  the  little  window,  through  which  the 
pine-log  fire  was  sending  such  flashes  of 
ruddy  light,  a  shiver  as  of  returning  con- 
sciousness passed  through  his  frame. 

They  led  him  into  the  room,  leaving  the 
door  open,  lest  the  sudden  warmth  might 
be  too  much  for  him,  and  let  him  sink  down 
on  the  floor,  supporting  his  head  with  the 
cushions  from  Nicholas's  arm-chair.  Robin 
bent  over  him  to  chafe  his  hands,  and  saw 
that  his  lips  moved,  though  he  could  hardly 
catch  the  feeble  sounds  that  passed  through 
them. 

"  I  am  here  at  last ;  I  can  die  easier  now," 
he  seemed  to  say :  and  Nicholas  answered, 
"  We  shall  soon  bring  you  round ;  keep  up 
heart,  you  are  not  going  to  die." 

But  Robin  did  not  speak.  He  was  gazing 
with  white  lips  and  eager  eyes  at  the  face 
before  him,  and  as  Nicholas  looked  at  the 
two,  he  also  became  silent  and  awestruck. 
How  was  it  that  in  the  ghastly,  worn  face, 
half  covered  with  long  beard  and  neglected 


OHEISTMAS  AT  THE  OLD  TTATX.       169 

hair,  in  the  hollow  cheeks  and  sunken  dull 
eyes,  he  yet  saw  the  look  of  a  face  that  he 
knew  —  of  the  very  face  now  bending  over 
the  old  man  as  he  lay,  the  bright  young 
face  of  the  friend  whom  he  loved  ? 

"Nicholas,"  said  Robin,  rising  and  seizing 
his  friend's  arm  with  almost  painful  force  aa 
he  drew  him  aside,  "Nicholas,  it  is  my 
father." 


CHAPTER  XII. 


THE  UNEXPECTED  GUEST. 

[OUGH  Robin  had  spoken  in  a  low 
tone,  yet  at  the  sound  of  the  last 
word  the  old  man  moved  his  head 
restlessly,  as  if  it  stirred  some  hidden  mem- 
ory, and  began  to  speak  to  himself  in  a  thick 
troubled  voice.  "'Father'  —  yes,  that  is 
what  he  used  to  call  me.  I  was  a  father 
once,  but  I  shall  never  see  him  again.  Poor 
Robin,  he  used  to  call  me  '  father',  but  he 
wouldn't  know  me  now.  I  was  a  bad  father 
to  him,  poor  lad." 

" 1  am  here,  father:  don't  you  know  me  ?" 
said  Robin,  in  a  steady,  firm  voice,  bending 

170 


THE  UNEXPECTED  GUEST.  171 

down,  so  that  the  firelight  shone  full  on  his 
face. 

A  moment's  light  came  into  the  dull  eyes, 
there  was  almost  a  smile  on  the  pinched  lips, 
but  the  poor  wanderer  was  too  benumbed  in 
mind  as  well  as  body  to  show,  or  even  to 
feel,  much  surprise.  The  longing  which 
had  directed  his  steps  towards  the  old  cot- 
tage where  he  had  left  his  boy  had  brought 
the  thought  of  his  son  very  clearly  before  his 
mind.  It  was  the  one  impression  which  had 
remained  when  so  much  else  had  been  lost, 
and  it  seemed  almost  natural  to  find  himself 
once  more  in  the  old  kitchen,  and  hear  his 
boy's  voice  call  him  "  father." 

Nicholas  stood  aside,  stunned  and  bewil- 
dered, unable  to  feel  that  the  return  for 
which  he  had  so  prayed  had  brought  with  it 
anything  but  trouble  and  confusion;  al- 
most forgetting  to  pity  the  father  in  his  sor- 
row for  what  seemed  such  a  sudden  blight 
on  the  young  happy  life  of  the  son. 

Not  so  Robin.  As  yet  no  remembrance 
of  himself  had  come  to  lessen  or  change  the 


172  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

intense  pity  which  filled  his  heart  as  he 
looked  at  the  feeble  old  man  before  him,  and 
thought  how  he  had  seen  him  leave  that 
cottage  door,  five  years  ago,  strong,  hale, 
and  active,  to  return  —  thus.  He  bent  over 
him  with  loving  care,  gently  putting  back 
the  dry  scattered  hair  from  the  hollow 
cheeks  and  deeply-lined  forehead ;  soothing 
him  with  loving  words,  which  seemed  to 
reach  his  ear  and  sense,  in  spite  of  the  torpor 
which  kept  him  silent,  for  a  smile,  almost 
of  peace  and  content,  crept  over  his  face. 

The  poor  man  was  still  too  feeble  for  them 
to  think  it  possible  that  he  could  climb  the 
steep  stairs  leading  to  the  little  room  above  ; 
so  Robin  and  Nicholas  set  to  work  to  make 
him  as  comfortable  as  they  could  where  he 
lay,  and  decided  that  they  would  watch  be- 
side him,  by  turns,  all  night.  The  supper 
which  Robin  had  prepared  as  a  welcome  for 
his  friend  was  scarcely  tasted  ;  and  some  of 
to-morrow's  beef  was  put  on  the  fire,  to 
make  some  strong  tea  for  their  patient, 
which  they  gave  him  from  a  spoon,  Nicholas 


THE  UNEXPECTED   GUEST.  173 

supporting  his  head,  while  Robin  fed  his 
father  as  he  would  a  sick  child. 

Robin  had  the  last  watch,  and  sat  in  the 
armchair,  watching  his  father's  uneasy 
slumbers,  as  the  first  gray  dawn  stole 
through  the  frosted  panes.  He  had  had  no 
sleep  that  night:  even  when  he  had  stretched 
himself  on  the  bed,  it  had  not  been  to  rest ; 
and  now  he  felt  weak  and  exhausted.  How 
dull  looked  the  life  which  stretched  before 
him  so  brightly  but  a  few  hours  ago,  how 
hard  the  path  which  he  had  chosen  to  follow. 

And  in  that  hour  of  weakness,  when  re- 
solve is  feeble  and  love  cold,  and  when  diffi- 
culties seem  to  grow  doubly  strong,  Satan 
was  ready,  too,  to  turn  him  aside  from  the 
right  course  by  every  argument  and  device. 
For  the  first  time  Robin  began  to  doubt 
whether  indeed  it  was  his  duty  to  give  up 
all  for  the  sake  of  the  father  who  had  nevei 
been  a  real  father  to  him.  He  began  to 
think  of  what  the  Squire  had  said,  and  to 
wonder  whether  it  were  likely  that  he,  a 
poor  lad,  could  know  better  what  was  right 


174  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

than  the  learned  gentleman  who  hi  /  W  so 
long  an  experience  of  life. 

When  Nicholas  came  down  ah  mt  eight 
o'clock  he  found  his  friend  still  sitting  in  the 
large  cushionless  chair,  his  face  white  and 
anxious,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  his  sleeping 
father  with  an  irresolute,  troubled  expres- 
sion, which  Nicholas  did  not  understand. 

"  Yon's  the  bells,"  cried  Nicholas,  his  face 
lighting  up,  as  a  joyous  peal  from  the  old 
tower  welcomed  the  Christmas  morning. 
"  Hearken,  Robin ; "  and  he  opened  the 
outer  door,  letting  in  a  burst  of  winter  sun- 
shine with  the  distant  music. 

Robin  rose,  and  walked  slowly  to  the 
door,  and  the  two  friends  stood  together  on 
the  threshold. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  "  asked 
Nicholas,  glancing  inward  for  a  moment  to- 
wards the  form  on  the  floor. 

*'  Oh,  Nicholas,"  answered  Robin,  almost 
with  a  groan,  "  don't  you  ask  me  yet.  I 
scarce  know  where  I  am,  nor  what's  hap- 
pened, nor  what  is  right.  I  feel  confused 


THE  UNEXPECTED   GUEST.  175 

and  giddy,  and  as  if  everything  was  slipping 
away  from  me,  just  when  I  most  wanted  to 
get  sure  hold  of  it." 

Nicholas  looked  with  ready  sympathy  into 
the  agitated  face,  and  held  his  friend's  hand 
for  a  moment  in  a  close,  strong  clasp.  He 
said  nothing  ;  but  in  his  heart  he  prayed  to 
God  to  help  his  friend  to  do  right,  at  any 
cost,  and  to  make  his  way  plain. 

When  the  bells  began  to  ring  for  church, 
Nicholas  said,  in  a  cheerful  voice,  "  You  go, 
Robin;  one  of  us  is  enough  to  tend  your 
father,  and  it  is  no  use  my  going.  I  couldn't 
so  much  as  find  my  way  there  alone."  And 
Robin,  weary  and  downhearted,  was  glad  to 
go,  if  it  were  only  that  he  might  find  him- 
self alone  under  the  trees,  with  no  one  to 
watch  his  face,  as  he  let  his  painful  thoughts 
have  their  own  way  for  a  while. 

The  silence  soothed  him,  so  did  the  clear 
frosty  sky,  the  slow  movement  of  the  tas- 
selled  pines,  the  thousand  sweet  influences 
of  the  familiar  scene:  and  it  was  with  calmer 
thoughts  that  he  entered  the  old  porch  -  - 


176  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

through  the  crowd  of  villagers  in  their  best 
clothes,  who  were  loitering  in  the  church- 
yard, waiting  till  the  bell  should  cease  — 
and  took  his  place  in  a  dark  corner  of  the 
church.  In  the  place  itself  there  were  no 
associations  of  the  past,  for  as  a  child  his 
feet  had  never  crossed  the  threshold  of 
God's  house,  but  the  words  of  prayer  and 
praise  and  teaching  recalled  the  best  hopes 
and  purposes  of  later  days,  and  drew  his 
heart  with  fresh  love  to  that  dear  Saviour 
who  had  laid  aside  all  for  his  sake. 

"He  did  all  for  me,"  said  Robin,  half 
aloud,  as  he  walked  home  slowly  and  alone, 
avoiding  even  the  pleasant  smile  of  little 
Lettice,  and  the  merry  greeting  of  his  old 
companion  Jonas.  "  There  was  not  any- 
thing that  was  His  that  He  was  not  willing 
to  give  up,  that  He  might  save  even  such  a 
poor  lad  as  I  am  ;  and  oh !  I  ought  to  be  so 
glad  to  be  able  to  give  up  some  little  thing 
for  Him — yes,  to  give  up  all,  if  it  were 
needed,  so  that  my  father,  whom  Christ 
loves,  might  be  saved  by  His  love." 


THE   UNEXPECTED   GUEST.  177 

The  doubt  and  the  darkness  were  passing 
from  his  mind,  the  clouds  were  being  drawn 
up  by  the  sunshine  of  love.  He  did  not 
need  to  think  whether  or  no  he  was  doing 
what  was  written  down  in  the  command- 
ments. For  once  this  obedience,  this  safe, 
sure,  strong  guide  through  so  many  of  the 
perplexed  ways  of  life,  was  lost  sight  of  in 
the  intense  love  and  gratitude  which  longed 
to  do  even  more,  which  would  fain  sell  all 
that  he  had,  if  so  he  might  the  better  follow 
his  dear  Lord.  His  steps  grew  quicker  and 
lighter  as  he  drew  near  the  cottage ;  his 
mind  was  at  peace ;  now  he  would  tell  the 
Squire  of  his  father's  return  the  first  thing 
next  morning,  and  then  he  would  be  pre- 
pared for  what  he  knew  must  follow  —  the 
loss  of  his  home  and  his  employment.  They 
would  all  go  away  together,  and  Robin 
would  find  some  humble  work  by  which  he 
could  earn  bread  for  his  father,  and  keep 
Nicholas  near  him. 

It  was  quite  a  cheerful  scene  on  which  the 
winter  sun  and  the  blazing  Christmas  fire 


178  THE  FAITHFUL  SOW. 

shone,  as  Robin  opened  the  cottage  door, 
Nicholas,  with  his  deft  fingers,  had  tidied  the 
disordered  room,  had  helped  the  old  man, 
revived  by  his  night's  rest  and  breakfast,  into 
the  chair  by  the  fire,  and  covered  his  torn 
dress  with  Robin's  overcoat.  His  face  was 
washed,  and  his  hair  and  beard  carefully 
trimmed  and  brushed,  and  there  was  almost 
a  smile  on  his  face,  as  he  sat  waiting  his  boy's 
return. 

They  drew  round  the  fire  after  dinner. 
Robin  heaped  the  hearth  with  fresh  pine-logs, 
and  the  old  man  spread  out  his  hands  towards 
the  cheerful,  friendly  warmth. 

"  Here,  Nicholas,  you  have  the  chair,  and 
I  will  sit  on  the  stool  beside  you,  father, " 
said  Robin,  in  a  pleasant  voice ;  "  and  I  will 
tell  you  what  I've  been  doing  these  five  years. 
You  want  to  hear,  don't  you?  "  and  in  his 
voice  there  was  a  longing  desire  for  some 
word  of  affection,  some  response  to  cheer 
him  through  the  painful  sacrifice  that  in  his 
heart  he  had  already  made. 

But  there  was  silence,  and  Robin,  with  a 


THE  UNEXPECTED   GUEST.  179 

sense  of  bitter  disappointment,  was  slowly 
drawing  back  the  hand  which  he  had  laid  on 
his  father's  knee,  when  he  felt  a  hot  tear  fall 
on  it,  and  looking  up  quickly,  he  saw  others 
slowly  rolling  down  the  old  man's  worn 
cheeks. 

"  I  don't  deserve  it,  I  know  I  don't  deserve 
it, "  said  he,  with  a  groan.  "  I've  suffered 
enough  in  my  mind  for  leaving  you,  boy  — 
suffered  bitter  and  sore,  but  I  never  felt  so 
sorry  till  now ;  my  heart  is  like  to  break. 
God  forgive  me  !  "  There  was  a  pause,  and 
the  father  went  on  presently,  taking  his  hands 
from  before  his  face.  "But  it  has  turned 
out  well  for  you,  lad,  though  it  don't  make 
my  fault  the  lighter.  You  have  turned  into 
a  gentleman  ;  you  might  be  the  Squire's  son, 
to  hear  you  speak ;  and  yet  you  are  not 
ashamed  of  me,  nor  my  rags,  God  bless 
you  I  " 

As  he  spoke,  his  eyes  were  fixed  tenderly 
on  his  son,  but  when  he  mentioned  the 
Squire's  name,  a  moment's  expression  of 
anger  passed  over  his  face,  until  he  looked 


180  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

like  the  father  whom  Robin  remembered  in 
the  old  days. 

Robin  hesitated.  How  would  his  father 
receive  the  tidings  that  the  son  owed  his 
education  and  change  of  circumstances  to 
the  man  whom  his  father  had  wronged,  and 
whom  he  evidently  hated  as  of  old,  believ- 
ing him  to  be  the  cause  of  all  he  had  suf- 
fered? Would  it  not  be  well  to  wait  a 
while,  until  the  Squire  had  been  told  ? 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  sound  of 
foatsteps  on  the  crisp,  frosted  snow  without, 
evidently  coming  directly  towards  the  cot- 
tage. The  old  man  began  to  tremble,  and 
made  a  movement  as  though  he  would  rise 
from  his  chair  and  hide  himself,  but  he  sank 
back  exhausted  with  the  effort.  A  rap  on 
the  door,  as  from  a  stick,  three  quick  de- 
cided taps,  and  before  Robin  could  cross  the 
floor  the  latch  was  lifted,  and  the  Squire 
himself  stood  before  the  astonished  group. 
His  face  was  more  smiling  and  genial  than 
usual,  and  there  was  warmth  in  his  tone  as 
he  wished  them  all  a  merry  Christmas.  He 


THE  UNEXPECTED   GUEST.  181 

glanced  towards  the  two  by  the  fire,  and 
said  to  Robin,  "  Your  friend,  I  suppose," 
but  made  no  remark  about  the  guest  in  the 
easy  chair,  whom  indeed  he  scarcely  seemed 
to  notice.  Robin  set  a  chair  for  his  master, 
and  remained  standing  himself,  his  face  ex- 
pressing so  much  trouble  and  perplexity, 
that,  had  the  Squire  looked  at  him,  he  must 
have  seen  at  once  that  something  unusual 
had  occurred  ;  but  he  was  not -very  used  to 
reading  the  faces  about  him,  and  was,  be- 
sides, absorbed  in  the  errand  which  had 
brought  him  out  that  Christmas  afternoon. 
"  I  had  a  letter,  Wallack,"  he  said,  "this 
morning  from  the  rector,  about  those  people 
at  Longworth  farm  that  I  told  you  must  be 
turned  out.  They  are  in  very  heavy  trouble, 
it  seems  ;  sickness,  as  well  as  the  failure  of 
crops,  and  their  youngest  child  dead  or  dy- 
ing. The  rector,  an  old  college  crony  of 
mine,  speaks  highly  of  the  father,  and  begs 
hard  that  I  would  wait  another  quarter  be- 
fore proceeding  to  extremities :  he  says  they 
will  be  utterly  ruined  if  they  are  turned 


182  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

out.  It's  against  my  principles,  and  I  doubt 
whether  the  example  will  do  good ;  but  I 
shall  let  it  stand  over  awhile,  and  perhaps 
forgive  them  a  quarter  when  I  see  some 
effort  really  made.  But,  of  course,  of  this 
you  will  say  nothing." 

"  I,  sir  ?  "  asked  Robin,  almost  in  surprise, 
for  in  his  own  mind  he  had  already  ceased  to 
be  trusted  with  the  Squire's  affairs,  and  he 
almost  forgot  that  the  Squire  could  not 
know  the  change  that  one  night  had  made  — 
a  night  that  seemed  now  to  be  weeks  ago. 

"  Yes,  I  want  you  to  ride  over  to  Long- 
worth  the  first  thing  to-morrow  morning : 
that  is  what  brought  me  down  here  now. 
The  truth  is,  Robin,"  and  the  Squire  laughed 
a  little,  "  I  must  be  getting  old.  I  find  I 
can't  properly  enjoy  the  day  so  long  as  I 
have  those  poor  folks  on  my  mind ;  but  it  is 
all  right,  now  I  have  given  you  your  orders." 

While  Robin  stood  hesitating  how  to  an- 
swer, the  Squire  glanced  with  some  interest 
round  the  little  room,  and  this  time  his  eye 
rested  on  the  stranger  guest  by  the  fireside. 


THE  UNEXPECTED  GUEST.  18& 

A  pale  face,  with  gleaming  angry  eyes,  was 
fixed  on  his  —  a  face  in  which  fear  and 
hatred  were  strangely  mixed,  as  they  were 
also  in  the  shrinking  attitude  and  upraised 
hand. 

The  Squire  turned  hastily  to  Robin  for 
explanation.  "  Who  is  this  ?  Have  you 
broken  your  word  to  me,  Wallack?"  he 
said,  harshly. 

"  I  found  my  father  dying  in  the  woods 
last  night,"  replied  Robin,  slowly,  "  and  I 
brought  him  home.  I  was  coming  to  tell 
you  the  first  thing  to-morrow  morning.  I 
have  not  broken  my  word,  sir.  I  knew  that 
I  ceased  to  be  your  servant  when  my  father 
came  back." 

" '  Servant,'  his  servant,"  muttered  the 
elder  Wallack,  in  an  angry  tone.  "I'd 
sooner  see  my  son  starve  than  he  should 
demean  himself  to  serve  such  as  you.  Ay, 
you  can  look  as  fierce  as  you  please,  but  I'm 
not  afraid  of  you." 

"  Oh,  sir,  he  does  not  know  what  he  is 
Baying ;  pray  do  not  listen  to  him  I "  cried 


184  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

Robin,  in  great  distress:  but  the  Squire, 
with  an  angry  flush  on  his  face,  was  already 
crossing  the  threshold  into  the  dusky  shad- 
ows of  the  pine  wood,  and  Robin,  afraid  to 
displease  him  more  by  following,  could  do 
nothing  but  try  to  soothe  his  father's  agita- 
tion, whose  sudden  anger  was  passing,  now 
that  the  Squire  was  gone,  into  terror  at  the 
thought  of  the  punishment  which  he  had 
braved  by  his  return. 

"  Hide  me  !  hide  your  poor  old  father !  " 
he  cried,  trembling.  "The  police  will  be 
here ;  they  will  drag  me  off  to  jail,  and  I 
will  never  live  to  come  out." 

His  terror  redoubled  when  the  Squire,  re-' 
turning,  beckoned  to  Robin  to  come  and 
speak  with  him  outside  the  door.  "  Wai- 
lack,"  he  said,  sternly,  "  I  would  rather  end 
this  matter  now.  You  need  not  come  to 
the  Hall  again;  after  what  has  passed,  all 
relations  between  us  are  at  an  end.  I  will 
send  you  the  sum  due  to  you,  and  allow  you 
a  week  to  make  your  plans  and  leave  the 
cottage." 


THE  UNEXPECTED   GUEST.  185 

"  I  see  you  were  right,  sir,"  said  Robin, 
with  a  sigh.  "  You  could  not  let  my  father 
stay  here,  but  you  see  how  broken  and  ill  he 
is,  sir.  I  couldn't  leave  him.  Oh,  don't 
think  me  ungrateful." 

"  I  look  to  deeds  not  words,"  said  the 
Squire,  curtly:  "  but  you  must  choose  your 
own  way.  I  have  no  more  to  say  about  the 
matter  ;  "  and  he  turned  to  go. 

"Oh,  sir,"  cried  Robin,  despairingly,  "if 
you  would  only  give  my  duty  to  Madam  and 
Miss  Florence,  and  tell  them  I  shall  never 
forget  their  goodness,  and  that  I'm  not  un- 
grateful." But  the  Squire  was  gone. 

What  a  miserable  Christmas  Day  it 
seemed.  But  it  is  just  when  everything 
is  dark  around  us  that  God's  light  has  most 
power  to  cheer  and  comfort ;  and  there  was 
peace  in  Robin's  heart  as  he  stood  alone 
under  the  pine  trees,  for  every  act  of  obedi- 
ence, every  effort  of  faith,  is  a  fresh  cov- 
enant, binding  the  soul  to  God :  and  He 
comes,  when  we  have  laid  aside  the  treas- 
ures that  were  only  of  earth,  and  says  to  us, 


186  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

as  we  kneel  before  Him,  poor  and  forsaken, 
"  Fear  not,  I  am  thy  Shield  and  thine  ex- 
ceeding great  Reward." 

"  Come  and  comfort  your  father,"  said 
Nicholas,  presently ;  "  he'll  not  hearken  to 
me. 

"  Nicholas,  you  forgive  me  !  "  said  Robin, 
in  a  low  tone.  "  I  am  breaking  up  your 
life  as  well  as  my  own." 

"  Forgive  you  !  "  exclaimed  Nicholas, 
wringing  his  hand.  "  Why,  old  fellow, 
'tis  all  the  same  to  me,  so  that  we  are  to- 
gether ;  and  I'm  happier  to  see  you  doing 
the  right  thing,  though  it  is  hard,  than  to 
share  a  fortune  with  you." 

Hand-in-hand  they  went  back  to  the  fire- 
side, where  Robin's  presence  seemed  at  once 
to  soothe  and  tranquilize  his  father.  The 
dusk  was  coming  on,  and  filled  the  little 
chamber,  where  the  log  fire  had  died  into  a 
red  glow.  They  could  scarcely  see  each 
other's  faces  now,  but  Robin  held  his 
father's  wrinkled  hand  in  his,  and  the 
touch  gave  him  comfort  and  strength. 


THE  UNEXPECTED   GUEST.  187 

Presently  Nicholas  began  to  sing ;  it  was 

a  Christmas  carol  of  long  ago,   the  words 

of  which  came  softly  through  the  dusky 
twilight : 

"His  dwelling  it  was  neither, 

In  housen  nor  in  hall, 
Nor  in  a  lordly  chamber, 
But  by  the  oxen's  stall:" 

he  sang.  "  He  had  not  where  to  lay  His 
head,"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone,  like  a  half- 
spoken  thought,  as  he  finished  the  verse. 

"  That  was  like  me  last  night ;  ay,  and  for 
many  a  night  before,"  said  the  old  man, 
catching  the  words. 

"  It  was  to  save  us,  father,  because  He 
loved  us  so ;  it  is  Jesus  our  Saviour  that 
Nicholas  means,  who  had  not  where  to  lay 
His  head." 

"  Ah,  boy,"  said  the  old  man,  sadly,  "  I 
know  nothing  of  it.  Time  was  I  did,  but 
I've  forgot  it  all.  There's  many  a  day, 
since  I've  been  so  broken  and  poor  and  ill, 
I've  felt  after  it,  and  would  have  given  a 
deal,  if  I'd  had  it,  to  lay  hold  of  a  thought 


188  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

to  comfort  me.  I  never  taught  you  nought 
of  it,  Robin,  but  you've  learnt  it :  and  now 
'tis  my  boy  must  teach  his  father.  I'm 
willing  to  learn." 

"  We'll  learn  together,  please  God,"  said 
Robin ;  and  in  the  darkness  none  could  see 
the  happy  tears  in  his  eyes.  "  I  know  just 
nothing,  but  God  has  promised  to  teach  us. 
Nicholas  shall  read  us  a  chapter  now,  for 
it's  time  we  got  you  to  bed,  father;  and 
you  wouldn't  mind,  would  you,  if  we  said  a 
bit  of  a  prayer  together,  to  thank  God  for 
bringing  you  back  ?  " 

In  the  course  of  the  next  day  came  an 
envelope  from  the  Squire,  in  which  was  en- 
closed the  money  which  would  have  been 
due  to  Robin  at  the  end  of  the  first  quarter  j 
and,  better  even  than  this,  a  letter  of  rec- 
ommendation from  the  Squire  to  a  gentle- 
man who  was  the  head  of  some  large  iron- 
works in  a  town  about  thirty  miles  distant. 
Robin  dared  not  go  up  to  the  Hall  again, 
but  he  wrote  a  grateful  letter,  in  which  he 
tried  to  express  his  thankfulness  for  the 


THE  UNEXPECTED   GUEST. 


189 


past ;  and  he  said  to  himself  that  surely  the 
future  years  would  bring  with  them  some 
means  of  showing  the  feeling  which  he  "vas 
sure  would  never  die  out  of  his  heart. 


CHAPTER 

THE  THIRD  CHRISTMAS  EVE. 


years  had  gone  by,  and  the 
Christmas  snow  was  spread  over 
the  earth  for  the  second  time  since 
Robin  had  crushed  it  under  his  feet  as  he 
passed  through  the  pine  wood  on  that  well 
remembered  Christmas  Eve.  It  was  not  on 
soft  yielding  mounds  of  crisp  snow  that  he 
was  treading  now,  as  he  hurried  towards  his 
home,  his  heart  seeming  to  beat  time  the 
while  to  the  music  of  the  bells,  which  from 
many  a  church  steeple  around  were  telling 
that  Christmas  had  come  again. 

In  a  little  house  in  one   of  the  smaller 

190 


THE  THIED   CHRISTMAS  EVE.  191 

streets  of  the  town  his  father  and  Nicholas 
were  waiting  for  his  return,  listening,  as 
they  sat  side  by  side  over  the  fire,  for  the 
pleasant  sound  of  his  footfall  without.  Many 
a  quick  step  came  down  the  street,  but  none 
paused  before  the  door,  and  the  old  man 
began  to  move  uneasily  in  his  chair,  and 
Nicholas  rose  and  walked  across  the  floor  to 
the  tall  clock  that  stood  in  the  corner,  as  if 
to  try  and  convince  himself  that  it  was  not 
really  much  later  than  the  usual  hour  of 
Robin's  return. 

"  Here  he  is  at  last,"  cried  the  old  man, 
joyfully,  but  Nicholas  shook  his  head.  "  As 
if  I  didn't  know  my  boy's  step,"  trium- 
phantly, as  it  paused  at  the  door.  But  there 
was  a  knock.  Robin  would  have  lifted  the 
latch  and  entered  ;  and  wondering,  Nicholas 
crossed  the  kitchen  and  looked  out  into  the 
dark  street. 

No  one  was  there ;  he  gazed  up  and  down, 
and  then  took  a  step  out  into  the  street,  that 
he  might  look  round  the  corner,  for  he  felt 
sure  that  his  ears  had  not  deceived  him.  He 


192  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

stumbled  and  nearly  fell  over  something 
which  stood  on  the  threshold,  and  which  he 
had  not  seen  while  looking  above  it  for 
Robin's  tall  head.  His  exclamation  of  sur- 
prise brought  the  elder  Wallack  to  his  side, 
and  together  they  examined  the  large  strong- 
ly-fastened hamper,  which  was  almost  too 
much  for  their  united  strength,  as  they  tried 
to  drag  it  into  the  light. 

"  '  Mr.  Robin  Wallack,'  "  read  Nicholas : 
"  it  must  wait  till  he  comes  home.  But  what- 
ever can  it  be  ?  " 

"  To  think  that  I  shouldn't  know  my  boy's 
step,  "  mused  the  old  man.  "  I  could  have 
been  as  sure  as  anything  that  he  brought  it 
to  the  door  his  own  self." 

"  Right,  father,  "  cried  a  merry  voice,  as 
Robin  appeared  out  of  the  darkness,  and 
seizing  the  hamper,  bore  it  into  the  circle  of 
firelight.  "  But  for  all  that,  I  know  no  more 
about  it  than  you  do.  It  came  by  rail,  and 
was  left  at  the  works  for  me  this  afternoon : 
that's  all  I  know  about  it." 

'*  Open  it,  boy,  open  it,"  said  his  father. 


THE  THIRD   CHRISTMAS  EVE.  193 

"It  must  be  full  of  bricks,  to  be  so  heavy ;  'tis 
a  joke,  depend  upon  it.  Who  is  to  send  us 
a  Christmas  hamper?  Why,  we've  not  a 
friend  in  the  world  that  I  know  of." 

"  Tis  a  good  practical  joke,  father, " 
answered  Robin,  laughing,  as  he  cut  the 
string  and  forced  open  the  hamper  lid,  "  one 
I  shouldn't  mind  seeing  repeated,  for  my 
part ;  "  and  raising  a  clean  white  cloth  that 
was  spread  over  the  top,  he  lifted  out  a  plump 
turkey,  its  white  breast  decorated  with  a 
chain  of  sausages. 

Nicholas  was  silent  with  surprise,  but 
Wallack  seized  the  prize,  exclaiming,  "I 
know  the  breed,  there's  no  such  turkeys  as 
these  bred  off  the  old  Squire's  land.  'Tis 
your  doing,  Robin:  you've  been  writing  to 
the  old  place,  to  get  them  to  send  us  some 
Christmas  fare." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,  father.  I  can  give  a  good 
guess  who  sent  the  hamper,  but  I  knew 
nothing  about  it  till  the  parcel  cart  left  it  at 
the  works.  But  come,  there's  plenty  beside 
the  turkey ;  and  see  here,  father,  this  is  a 


194  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

letter :  now  we  shall  know  all  about  it." 
And  Robin  went  to  the  fire,  to  read  his  letter 
by  its  light,  while  Wallack  and  Nicholas  went 
on  with  their  pleasant  work,  taking  out  a 
home-cured  ham,  a  few  fresh  eggs,  a  pat  of 
firm  yellow  butter,  while  every  spare  corner 
was  filled  with  hard  rosy-cheeked  apples  and 
russet  pears. 

"  And  here's  a  sprig  of  holly  all  ready  for 
the  pudding,"  said  Nicholas,  holding  it  up  to 
Robin,  who  only  nodded,  and  bent  over  his 
letter  eyes  which  were  full  of  happy  tears. 

"  Let  us  hear  the  letter,  and  all  about  it," 
said  the  elder  Wallack,  a  little  impatiently. 
"  I  was  right  about  your  step,  and  I  was 
right  about  the  turkey  too,  I'll  be  bound. 
Isn't  it  from  the  old  place,  now  ?  But  who 
should  think  of  us  there,  passes  me." 

"It  is  from  the  Squire,  father,*'  said 
Robin,  gently,  coming  to  the  old  man's  side, 
and  laying  his  hand  on  his  arm,  "  and  there's 
a  message  in  it  for  you;  will  you  hear  it 
now?" 

*•  Ay,  ay,  why  not  ?  "  said  Wallack,  seat- 


TlTTC  THIRD  CHRISTMAS  EVE.          195 

ing  himself.  "  Don't  you  go,  Nicholas ;  read 
the  message,  Robin,  boy ; "  but  the  old  man's 
voice  trembled  a  little  as  he  spoke. 

"  Tell  your  father,"  read  Robin,  "  that  1 
hope  he  will  be  able  to  enjoy  the  Christmas 
cheer.  Perhaps  when  you  tell  him  what  I 
have  said  to  you,  he  will  be  able  to  forgive 
me  for  sending  you  away  two  years  ago.  In 
any  case  I  want  him  to  believe  that  I  do  for- 
give him  from  my  heart  the  wrong  he  did 
me,  even  as  I  trust  that  God  will,  for  Christ's 
sake,  pardon  me." 

"  That  doesn't  read  much  like  the  Squire, 
said  Wallack,  doubtfuUy.  "  I  don't  under- 
stand it.  What  has  he  said  to  you,  lad  ?  " 

"  Father,"  answered  Robin,  with  almost  a 
sob  in  his  voice,  "  he  says  Will  I  come  back 
again  ?  " 

"  And  you  shall  go,"  said  Wallack,  with  a 
sudden  firmness  in  his  voice.  "  I  have  learnt 
a  little  these  two  years ;  and  though  I  can 
never  be  a  help  to  my  boy  as  a  father  ought 
to  be,  I'll  stand  in  your  way  no  longer.  You 
shall  go.  They'll  find  a  corner  for  me  in 


196  THE  FAITHFUL  SON. 

the  poor  house,  and  'tis  there  I  should  have 
been  these  two  years,  by  rights  ;  but  I  can 
scarce  be  sorry,  Robin,  for  then,  how  should 
I  have  learnt  of  Him  !  But  I  shan't  be  alone 
now.  I'm  but  an  ignorant  old  man,  and  no 
company  for  any  one,  but  yet  He  takes  pity 
on  me,  and  He'll  come  and  speak  to  me,  and 
comfort  me  when  you  are  far  away." 

Robin  laid  his  hand  on  the  feeble,  shaking 
arm,  which  would  never  again  recover  its 
strength.  "Why,  father,  you  must  be 
dreaming,  to  think  I'm  like  to  leave  you," 
he  said,  smiling.  "  Squire  knows  better 
than  that.  He  wants  you  to  come  back  too, 
and  Nicholas,  and  all.  Nicholas  is  to  be 
schoolmaster.  Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  "  and  Rob- 
in jumped  up  to  clap  his  friend  on  the  back. 
"  He  has  written  to  the  clergyman  about 
you,  Nicholas,  and  heard  all  sorts  of  fine 
things  about  your  learning  and  your  music, 
and  nought  will  content  him  but  you  must 
have  the  school.  Do  you  remember  setting 
up  school  with  one  pupil,  eh,  lad  ?  " 

"  He  has  been  trouble  enough,  fora  school 


THE  THIED  CHBISTMAS  EVE.          197 

full,"  answered  Nicholas,  smiling  quietly, 
and  beginning  in  his  orderly  fashion,  to  put 
away  the  contents  of  the  hamper,  and  clear 
the  hay  from  the  floor ;  but  there  was  a  light 
in  his  eye,  and  a  smile  on  his  thin  lips  which 
Robin  rejoiced  to  see. 

"  Here's  something  else  in  the  hay — anoth- 
er letter,"  said  Nicholas,  handing  a  sealed 
note  to  Robin. 

"  It's  from  Miss  Florence,"  said  Robin, 
flushing  with  surprise.  "Oh,  father!  O, 
Nicholas !  Miss  Florence  has  written  to  me, 
her  own  self,  to  ask  me  to  come  back.  She 
is  going  to  be  married,  she  says,  come  the 
New  Year,  and  she  must  have  me  at  the 
wedding ;  and  then,  she  says,  I  can  look  over 
the  place,  and  get  all  ready  for  you,  father, 
and  for  Nicholas.  Oh,  dear,  I  feel  almost 
too  happy." 

The  old  man  had  sat,  meanwhile,  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  fire,  as  if  he  saw  in  its  glowing 
hollows,  pictures  of  the  past  and  the  future, 
and  slow,  painful,  rare  tears  rolled  down  his 
furrowed  cheeks  ;  yet  they  were  tears  which 


198  THE  FAITHFUL  8OK. 

^ 

made  his  heart  lighter,  for  they  were  born  of 
penitence,  and  never  were  bright  with  the 
sunlight  of  thanksgiving. 

Presently  he  looked  up.  "  You'll  teU  the 
Squire  as  I  humbly  ask  his  pardon,  and  that 
I'm  more  thankful  than  I  can  say,  to  come 
back  to  the  old  place  to  die.  Say,  he  has 
given  me  the  blithest  Christmas  that  I  ever 
knew.  Tis  like  the  blessed  words  you  read 
this  morning,  Robin,  '  Peace  on  earth,  good 
will  toward  men.'  My  heart  is  lighter  than 
it  has  been  since  that  miserable  night,  better 
than  seven  years  gone.  I  seem  to  believe 
now  that  God  for  Christ's  sake  has  forgiven 
my  sin." 

That  night,  when  Nicholas  was  alone  in 
his  room,  he  heard  a  light  tap  at  his  door. 
"  Come  in,"  he  said,  for  he  knew  that  it  was 
Robin,  and  he  laid  his  hand  on  his  arm,  and 
drew  him  to  sit  down  by  him  on  the  side  of 
the  bed. 

"  God  is  very  good,"  he  said  in  a  low  tone, 
that  was  like  an  echo  of  Robin's  thoughts. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Robin ;  "  and  the  best  hap- 


THE  THIRD  CHBISTMAS  EVE.  9 

piness  of  all,  is  to  feel  that  God  has  been 
good  to  us  all  along  ;  just  as  good  when  he 
sent  the  trouble,  as  now  that  we  are  so  hap- 
py. He  has  been  with  us  all  along,  Nicholas, 
and  that  makes  the  gladness." 

"  And  that  is  a  gladness,"  said  Nicholas, 
as  if  thinking  aloud,  "  that  can  never  come 
to  an  end.  Though  I  daresay  we  shall  be 
glad  and  sorry  again  a  great  many  times  in 
the  course  of  our  lives,  yet  there  will  always 
be  the  promise,  4  If  ye  keep  my  command- 
ments, ye  shall  abide  in  my  love.'  " 


CHAPTER  1. 


HABBY'S  ADVENTURE. 

a  Bright  sunny  August  afternoon, 
Harry  Rivers  was  walking  briskly 
along  the  crowded  London  streets. 
It  was  evident  that  he  was  on  his  way  home 
from  school,  for  he  carried  some  books,  held 
together  by  a  stout  strap,  and  a  slate,  It 
was  equally  evident  that  he  was  going  home 
to  his  dinner ;  not  that  he  looked  by  any 
means  starved  or  miserable,  but  still  you 


204  HA  KEY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

would  have  felt  sure  that  he  wanted  neither 
clock  nor  watch  to  remind  him  of  the  din- 
ner hour. 

Harry  was  a  pleasant-looking  boy  about 
twelve  years  old,  well  but  plainly  dressed ; 
not  handsome  by  any  means,  though  he  had 
fine  brown  eyes,  full  of  sense  and  spirit ;  a 
tall,  awkward  boy  most  people  thought  him, 
but  his  little  sister  at  home  thought  no  one 
was  to  be  compared  to  him,  in  looks  or  any- 
thing else.  And  this  alone  would  give  me 
a  good  opinion  of  him;  it  is  a  good  sign 
when  a  big  boy  is  kind  to  his  little  sisters. 

He  walked  quickly  along,  as  I  have  said, 
until  he  came  to  a  shop  on  Regent  street,  the 
windows  of  which  were  full  of  prints  and 
photographs.  Here  he  stopped,  leaning 
against  the  brass  bar  that  defended  the  glass, 
and  gazed  long  and  steadily  at  one  particular 
print.  His  face  grew  grave;  nay,  almost 
sad,  as  he  looked,  and  his  lips  moved  as  if 
he  were  speaking,  though  no  sound  waa 
heard  from  them.  The  engraving  before  him 
was  taken  from  a  well-known  picture.  It 


HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  205 

represented  the  poor  little  French  king, 
Louis  xvii,  who  died  in  prison  in  Paris 
during  the  Revolution  about  eighty  years 
ago.  It  is  a  sad  picture,  as  you  may  imagine ; 
the  poor  little  child-king,  half  dressed,  and 
apparently  half  starved,  crouched  upon  the 
ground,  leaning  against  the  wall.  And,  oh  ! 
what  a  mournful,  despairing  look  there  is 
in  his  little  face  —  the  pretty,  childish  face, 
which  his  beautiful  mother  had  kissed  so 
fondly  when  it  was  bright  and  rosy  and  in- 
telligent. But  that  happy  time  seemed  long, 
long  ago  —  the  child  had  almost  forgotten 
it.  Mother,  father,  both  were  dead  ;  his  last 
friend,  kind,  gentle  Madame  Elizabeth,  was 
gone  too  —  all  murdered  by  the  cruel  people 
who  were  murdering  their  desolate  little 
prisoner  as  surely  as  if  they  had  sent  him  to 
the  guillotine  with  his  unhappy  parents. 

All  these  thoughts,  and  many  more,  passed 
through  the  mind  of  Harry  Rivers  as  he 
gazed  intently  on  the  picture,  with  his  bright 
brown  eyes  full  of  pity  and  sympathy.  How 
long  he  might  have  remained  thus  gazing, 


206  HARRY'S  PERPBLXITY. 

forgetting  the  dinner  he  had  wanted  so  much 
but  a  few  minutes  before,  I  do  not  know  j 
but  he  was  somewhat  unpleasantly  aroused, 
A  gentleman,  with  a  brown  pocket-book  in 
his  hand,  into  which  he  was  putting  a  paper, 
as  he  walked  quickly  on,  ran  against  poor 
unconscious  Harry,  and  knocked  the  slate 
out  of  his  hand. 

It  fell  with  a  great  clatter  upon  the  pave- 
ment, and  was  broken  into  several  pieces., 
This  brought  the  gentleman  to  a  stand.  He 
was  a  well-dressed,  well-looking  old  man, 
but  his  face  was  stern,  and  there  were  deep 
lines  in  his  forehead,  as  if  he  were  in  the 
habit  of  frowning.  He  looked  at  Harry 
with  a  frown  now,  as  he  thrust  the  pocket- 
book  into  his  pocket,  and  said  in  a  harsh, 
gruff  voice, 

"You  young  blockhead,  what  do  you 
mean  by  standing  in  the  way  ?  " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  said  Harry, 
laughing  ;  "I'm  sorry  I  was  in  your  way, 
but  of  the  two  I  think  I  got  the  worst  of  it.' 

And  he  pointed  to  the  broken  slate. 


HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  207 

"  Serve  you  right,  sir ;  serve  you  right," 
growled  the  old  gentleman.  "  Don't  expect 
that  I  shall  pay  for  it,  for  I  shan't ;  you've 
no  right  to  stand  blocking  up  the  pathway, 
and  I  shall  not  give  you  a  sixpence  !  " 

Harry  reddened  with  indignation  at  this 
rude  speech. 

"  Wait  until  I  ask  you  for  it,  sir! "  said 
he  ;  "I  should  not  take  it  if  you  offered  it 
to  me." 

The  old  gentleman  passed  on  briskly, 
and  Harry  following,  with  his  head  held 
very  high.  They  happened  to  be  going  in 
the  same  direction,  and  there  were  a  good 
many  people  about,  as  of  course  several  had 
stopped  to  see  what  had  happened.  Among 
these  there  was  a  stout  lad  of  about  sixteen, 
who  had  looked  on  with  much  interest,  and 
now  followed  the  old  man  closely;  and, 
presently,  what  did  Harry  see  to  his  great 
surprise,  but  this  youth  quietly  put  his  hand 
into  the  old  gentleman's  pocket,  and  softly 
draw  out  the  brown  pocket-book !  It  was 
so  quickly  and  skilfully  done  that  most  peo- 


208  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

pie  in  Harry's  place  would  not  have  per- 
ceived it,  but  fortunately  those  brown  eyes 
of  his  were  very  keen  and  observant. 

Letting  his  books  fall,  he  darted  upon  the 
thief,  caught  him  by  the  collar,  shouting 
"  Police !  police  !  "  with  all  his  might.  Sev- 
eral people  stopped  at  the  shout,  and  a 
policeman  might  be  seen  running  up,  but  not 
very  quickly.  Now  the  young  gentleman 
who  had  made  so  free  with  his  neighbor's 
pocket  had  many  excellent  reasons  for 
avoiding  an  interview  with  a  policeman,  so 
when  he  caught  sight  of  the  blue  uniform 
drawing  near  he  made  a  violent  effort,  flung 
Harry  off  so  roughly  that  he  fell  flat  on  his 
back,  pitched  the  brown  pocket-book  in  the 
face  of  a  man  who  attempted  to  lay  hold  of 
him,  and  fled  swiftly  away. 

The  policeman  sprang  forward  in  pursuit, 
but  unfortunately  (fortunately,  no  doubt  the 
thief  thought)  he  fell  over  the  prostrate  form 
of  Harry  Rivers,  and  in  the  consequent  con- 
fusion the  runaway  disappeared. 

The  testy  old  gentleman  had  turned  back 


The  Stolen  Pocket-Book .  -Page  209. 


HABBY'S  PEBPLEXITT.  209 

on  hearing  Harry's  shouts,  and  was  now  very 
red  in  the  face  with  hurry  and  consternation, 
having  missed  his  pocket-book. 

"  My  pocket-book,  policeman !  my  pocket- 
book  is  gone.  It  contains  papers  of  conse- 
quence —  papers  that  I  would  not  lose  on  any 
account." 

"  Is  this  it,  sir  ?  "  said  the  policeman,  pro- 
ducing it. 

"Yes,  that's  it  I  You  will  find  my  name, 
Henry  Marshall,  written  inside." 

"  All  right,  sir,  "  replied  the  policeman, 
after  opening  the  book  and  examining  the 
name. 

"How  did  you  find  it,  policeman  ?  "  in- 
quired Mr.  Marshall,  producing  a  well-filled 
purse  from  an  inner  pocket. 

"  This  boy,  sir  "  (pointing  to  Harry),  "this 
boy  saw  it  took,.  I  suppose,  and  he  laid  hold 
of  him  and  sung  out  like  a  good  one ;  and 
though  the  fellow  ran  when  he  saw  me  com- 
ing, he  thought  it  better  to  leave  your  book 
Vhind  him." 

"Which  boy? —  there  are   a   couple   of 


210  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

dozen  boys  here !  I'm  glad  the  rascal  got 
away,  for  I'm  leaving  town  to-night,  and  could 
not  have  waited  to  appear  against  him  with- 
out great  inconvenience." 

"  If  I  catch  him,  I  shall  let  you  know,  sir, 
so  please  give  me  your  address.  This  is  the 
boy,  sir." 

Harry,  laughing  and  coloring,  was  pushed 
forward  by  the  crowd  ;  the  old  gentleman 
laughed  a  little  too  when  he  recognized  him. 

"  So,  boy,  you  saved  my  pocket-book  !  " 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  at  least  I  saw  it  taken  and  sung 
out  for  the  police  ;  and,  after  all,"  he  added 
reproachfully  to  the  officer,  "you  let  him  get 
clean  off." 

**  Well,  there  are  several  papers  of  great 
value  to  me  in  this  book ;  it  is  worth  several 
hundred  pounds  to  me ;  though  if  the  rascal 
had  succeeded  it  would  have  been  worthless 
to  him.  But  you  have  obliged  me  very  much, 
boy,  and  I  shall  give  you  a  handsome  re- 
ward." 

"  No,  sir,  thank  you,  "  answered  Harry, 
firmly  but  civilly  ;  I  cannot  take  a  reward ;  1 


HABBY'S  PERPLEXITY.  211 

cannot  take  money  that  I  have  not  worked 
for,  and  this  is  nothing  at  all.  Good-bye, 
sir." 

He  was  turning  away  when  Mr.  Marshall 
put  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder  and  stopped 
him. 

"  Stay  one  moment,  boy.  I  like  your 
spirit,  and  though  I  will  not  again  offer  you 
a  reward,  perhaps  I  may  be  able  to  befriend 
you  some  time  or  other.  Here  is  my  card  ; 
keep  it  by  you,  and  if  at  any  time  you  should 
want  employment  come  to  me,  and  if,  on  in- 
quiry, I  am  satisfied  about  you,  I  will  help 
you  on  in  life ;  for  you  are  a  fine,  independ- 
ent fellow  —  a  very  fine  boy  indeed, " 

Harry  put  the  card  in  his  pocket,  made  his 
very  best  bow,  and  they  parted. 

The  excitement  over,  Harry  again  be- 
thought himself  of  his  long-delayed  dinner  ; 
he  was  by  this  time  very  hungry  indeed;  and 
was  besides  afraid  that  his  mother  would  be 
getting  anxious  about  him.  The  policeman 
had  picked  up  his  books  and  restored  them 
to  him,  so  there  was  nothing  more  to  detail* 


S12  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

him  ;  and  he  set  off  running  as  fast  as  he 
could  in  so  crowded  a  place.  Very  soon  he 
turned  out  of  Regent  Street,  and  having 
walked  some  distance  he  stopped  at  a  dull- 
looking  house,  most  of  the  rooms  of  which 
were  let  out  to  lodgers.  He  opened  the  door 
by  the  aid  of  a  latch-key,  and  ran  upstairs. 
He  passed  the  closed  doors  of  the  first  floor, 
and  soon  made  his  appearance  in  a  good-sized 
front  room  a  story  higher,  where  he  was  wel- 
comed with  cries  of  glee  from  his  baby 
sister. 

The  room  was  clean  and  neat,  but  plainly, 
nay,  scantily  furnished,  boasting  neither  car- 
pet nor  curtains.  Near  one  window  stood 
a  large  square  table,  covered  with  needle- 
work, and  beside  it  sat  a  gentle-looking 
lady,  busily  at  work  in  making  up  a  rich 
blue  silk  dress. 

The  costly  material  made  her  worn  stuff 
gown  look  even  shabbier  than  it  really  was, 
and  the  bright  color  made  her  pale  face  look 
paler  still.  Yet,  though  Mrs.  Rivers  looked 
shabby  and  pale,  she  was  evidently  a  lady, 


HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  213 

and  her  face  had  a  very  peaceful,  happy 
expression.  She  had  bright  brown  eyes, 
too,  like  her  son's. 

On  the  ground  sat  a  pretty  little  girl, 
three  years  old,  whose  merry  face  lighted  up 
with  fresh  smiles  at  the  sight  of  her  brother, 
to  welcome  whom  she  rose  to  her  feet  and 
pattered  across  the  room. 

"  Here  I  am  at  last,  mother  darling!  Did 
you  think  I  was  lost  ?  I  wish  you  had  not 
waited  for  me.  I've  had  an  adventure,  but 
I  must  tell  you  about  it  at  dinner.  I'm  so 
jolly  hungry !  Is  father  come  home  ?  " 

"  No,  my  love  ;  he  cannot  come  home  un- 
til evening.  Dinner  has  been  ready  for 
some  time,  so  if  you  will  wash  your  hands 
we  can  sit  down  at  once." 

She  laid  her  work  carefully  aside  as  she 
spoke,  and  when  they  had  all  washed  their 
hands  they  went  into  a  small  room  near 
the  larger  one.  Harry  carried  May  down, 
perched  upon  his  shoulder,  where  she 
screamed  with  delight,  and  pulled  his  thick 
hair  as  hard  as  she  could  with  her  little  fat 
hands. 


214  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

May  was  a  very  pretty  child,  fair  and 
rosy,  with  soft  rings  of  golden  hair  all  over 
her  head,  and  beautiful  blue  eyes.  She  was 
such  a  merry,  good-tempered  little  fairy, 
too  —  the  sunshine  of  the  house,  her  brother 
called  her.  She  sat  beside  him  now,  and, 
hungry  as  he  was,  he  got  her  dinner  ready 
before  he  began  to  eat  his  own. 

Presently  Mrs.  Rivers  inquired, 

"  What  was  your  adventure,  Harry  ?  you 
have  not  told  me  yet." 

"  Something  like  an  adventure,  mamma  ! 
To  begin  with,  I  was  standing  at  my  shop 
window  looking  at  the  print  I  am  copying, 
when  an  old  gentleman  ran  slap  against  me, 
knocked  my  slate  out  of  my  hand  and 
smashed  it.  Well,  instead  of  saying,  '  I 
beg  your  pardon,'  or  *  I  am  sorry,'  as  one 
would  have  expected,  he  said,  *  Serve  you 
right  for  blocking  up  the  way.'  If  you  had 
only  seen  how  he  frowned  at  me !  and  his 
voice  growled  and  grated  just  like  this, 
*  Serve  you  right,  boy  !  serve  you  right  1 ' ' 
And  Harry  grunted  out  the  words  in  the 
deepest  bass  he  could  master. 


HABRY'S  PEBPLEXITY.  215 

Mrs.  Rivers  had  been  listening  with  a 
smile  until  this  moment;  but  when  Harry 
imitated  the  old  gentleman's  way  of  speak- 
ing, she  started  slightly. 

"Well,  Harry,  what  next?  That  is  not 
all,  surely." 

"  Oh  dear,  no !  only  the  beginning  of  it. 
We  were  walking  along,  he  in  front  and  I  a 
little  behind  him,  when  I  saw  a  big  boy  pop 
his  hand  into  my  old  man's  pocket  and  take 
his  pocket-book.  I  rushed  up,  seized  the 
thief,  and  called  the  police,  but  the  rogue 
was  bigger  and  stronger  than  I,  so  before 
the  policeman  arrived  he  contrived  to  knock 
me  down  and  make  off ;  but  he.  thought  fit 
to  leave  his  prey  behind  him.  It  turned  out 
to  be  something  of  great  value,  and  the  old 
fellow  wanted  to  give  me  money,  but  of 
course  I  wasn't  going  to  have  that.  Then 
he  gave  me  his  card,  and  bid  me  keep  it  and 
come  to  him  if  I  ever  wanted  help  or  em- 
ployment, and  ended  all  with,  *  Youre're  a 
fine  boy !  a  very  fine  boy !  as  if  he  was 
rather  annoyed  with  me  for  being  a  fine  boy. 


216  HABRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

4  Much  you  know  about  me,  old  fello  <?V 
thought  I." 

"  Show  me  the  card,  Harry.  What  is  the 
name  ?  " 

Harry,  after  some  searching  in  his  pock- 
ets, produced  the  card,  and  read, 

"  Mr.  Henry  Marshall,  15, Square, 

and  139,  Lily  Pot  Lane." 

"  Why,  mamma !  "  he  exclaimed,  in  sur- 
prise, "  that's  my  name  !  I'm  Henry  Mar- 
shall too.  Is  not  that  very  odd  ?  " 

But,  glancing  at  his  mother,  he  saw  that 
her  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  She  took  the 
card  from  his  hand,  and  looked  at  it  in  si- 
lence for  a  few  minutes.  Then  she  said,  in 
a  low  voice, 

"  That  is  my  father,  Harry." 

"Your  father  I  Why,  mamma,  I  always 
fancied  that  you  had  none  —  I  mean,  of 
course,  I  thought  he  was  dead." 

44  Did  you  tell  him  your  name,  Harry  ?  " 

"  No :  he  did  not  ask  it.  There  was  such 
a  noise  and  uproar,  we  could  scarcely  hear 
each  other's  voices.  But  to  think  of  hia 


HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  217 

being  your  father  I  Why  do  we  never  see 
him?" 

"  Ah,  my  boy !  that  is  a  long,  long  story, 
and  a  very  sad  one,  too  ;  but  you  must  know 
it  some  day.  Finish  your  dinner,  and  when 
I  am  at  work  again  I  will  tell  you  all  about 
it." 

"  I  have  finished,  and  so  has  Mayblossom, 
I  perceive,  so  I  shall  just  call  Sally  and  fol- 
low you  upstairs." 

"  Put  May  on  oo  solda,"  cried  the  child, 
coaxingly.  So  she  went  upstairs  as  she 
had  come  down,  perched  upon  her  brother's 
"solda." 

Mrs.  Rivers  was  soon  again  at  work  upon 
the  blue  silk,  while  pretty  May  nursed  a 
frightful  wooden  doll,  which  she  loved  with 
all  her  heart,  and  sincerely  believed  to  be  a 
beauty.  Harry  brought  out  from  his  cup- 
board in  the  corner  a  drawing-board  and  a 
box  of  chalks,  and  establishing  himself  at  a 
distant  corner  of  the  table,  set  to  work  also 
in  good  earnest. 

Before  I  tell  you  what  Mrs.  Rivers  said, 


218  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

I  must  explain  about  Harry's  drawing.  He 
had,  from  the  time  when  he  was  no  older 
than  little  May,  shown  very  considerable 
talent ;  but  his  mother,  the  only  person  who 
6aw  his  attempts,  knew  nothing  whatever 
of  drawing  beyond  what  is  taught  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course  at  a  good  school.  She  had  no 
natural  taste  for  it,  and  so,  although  she  was 
very  glad  that  her  boy  liked  it  well  enough 
to  find  a  quiet,  constant  enjoyment  in "  the 
possession  of  a  few  sheets  of  cartridge  pa- 
per and  a  box  of  chalks,  she  had  no  idea 
that  his  drawings  proved  him  to  be  possessed 
of  talent  of  no  common  order.  That  corner 
cupboard,  which  belonged  exclusively  to 
Harry,  was  filled  to  overflowing  with  draw- 
ings. Little  rough  sketches,  imperfect,  of 
course,  but  very  clever  and  life-like.  There 
were  a  great  many  of  his  mother,  with  May 
upon  her  knee;  his  father  in  various  atti- 
tudes, or,  as  he  most  often  saw  him,  asleep 
in  his  easy-chair;  May  with  the  frightful 
doll ;  May  with  the  kitten.  These  were  his 
most  frequent  subjects.  But  latterly  he  had 


HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  219 

begun  to  copy  prints,  having  a  great  wish  to 
possess  copies  of  some  that  he  saw  in  the 
shop  windows.  Not  being  able  to  afford  to 
hire  them  for  copies,  he  hit  upon  the  plan 
of  taking  a  good  long  look  at  the  one  he 
was  at  work  upon  when  coming  home  from 
school,  and  then  attempting  to  draw  it  in 
the  afternoon.  Now,  any  artist  will  tell  you 
how  very  difficult  this  is ;  in  fact,  to  draw 
from  memory  is  one  of  the  last  things  that 
artists  attempt,  so  it  was  quite  wonderful 
that  Harry  could  do  it  at  all.  Not  that  he 
succeeded  as  well  as  he  wished,  for  his 
copies  were  full  of  faults  and  inaccuracies, 
but  it  was  wonderful  to  see  how  he  caught 
the  expression  of  the  faces. 

He  sat  looking  discontentedly  at  his  out- 
line of  the  little  Dauphin,  muttering  to 
himself, 

"  His  head  is  too  big,  and  I  forgot '  the  cap 
of  liberty, '  —  that's  easily  put  in,  however." 
Then  aloud,  "Now,  mamma,  now  for  your 
story.  Begin  at  once,  please,  for  Owen 
Eastwood  has  got  his  father's  leave  to  take 


220  HAEEY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

me  home  with  him  to  see  some  of  his  pic- 
tures —  he's  an  artist,  you  know.  And  Owen 
said  that  if  he  found  to-day  would  be  con- 
venient to  him  he  would  call  for  me  at  four 
o'clock." 

"  That's  very  kind  of  him.  I  shall  be  quite 
glad  to  see  this  friend  of  yours,  Harry,  I 
have  heard  so  much  of  him.  What  made  him 
think  of  showing  you  the  pictures  ?  " 

"  He  walks  home  part  of  the  way  with  me 
sometimes,  and  yesterday  I  was  taking  off  a 
bit  of  my  copy  on  my  slate,  and  that  made  us 
talk  of  drawing.  Owen  don't  like  drawing, 
only  fancy !  and  his  father  is  quite  vexed  at  it. 
Now  for  your  story,  mamma." 

"  Harry, "  said  Mrs.  Rivers,  slowly,  "  I 
almost  wish  I  had  not  promised  to  tell  it,  for 
I  find  it  very  painful  to  talk  about  it." 

Her  voice  was  low  and  broken,  and  the 
boy  saw  that  her  eyes  were  again  full  of 
tears. 

"  Then,  mamma,  don't  tell  me,"  he  said, 
eagerly.  "  I  can't  say  I'm  not  anxious,  be- 
cause I  really  am  just  boiling  over  with 


HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  221 

curiosity ;  but  I  shall  get  over  it,  never  fear 
• —  anything  rather  than  see  you  cry.  I  don't 
believe  I  do  care  to  hear  anything  about  that 
cross-grained  old  hunks !  " 

"  Oh  don't,  my  darling !  don't  speak  in 
that  way  of  your  grandfather  !  it  is  not  right. 
I  think,  as  the  matter  has  been  brought  be- 
fore you,  Harry,  I  prefer  to  tell  you  all  now  ; 
for  you  must  hear  it  some  day,  and  you  are 
old  enough  to  understand  it  now  ;  something 
of  it,  at  least." 

"  Then  go  on,  mamma  ;  I  am  listening  with 
all  my  ears, "  said  Harry  ;  "  and  please  begin 
by  telling  me  is  your  father  a  rich  man,  for 
he  seemed  to  be  ?  " 

"  He  is  a  very  rich  man  indeed,  and  I  am 
his  only  daughter." 

"  And  he  lets  you  make  dresses  to  earn 
money,  and  papa  work  as  a  railway  guard ! 
He  is  a  nice  old  gentleman,  upon  my  word." 

"  You  will  understand  it  better  when  I 
have  told  you  my  story.  I  have  two  broth- 
ers, you  must  know,  both  a  good  deal  older 
than  I  am." 


222  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

"  My  uncles,  of  course.  It  is  so  funny  to 
hear  of  a  whole  lot  of  relations  that  I  knew 
nothing  about.  Have  you  a  mother  too, 
mamma  ?  " 

"  Ah,  no.  If  I  had  had  a  mother  I  should 
not  have  this  story  to  tell.  My  mother  died 
when  I  was  born,  and  I  sometimes  think  that 
perhaps  this  was  the  reason  that  my  father 
never  liked  me  as  well  as  my  brothers ;  I  put 
him  in  mind  of  his  sorrow.  He  certainly  did 
not  love  me,  though  he  was  kind  to  me  in  a 
careless  way  ;  gave  me  a  great  many  presents, 
and  sent  me  to  an  excellent  school  when  I 
was  old  enough.  I  had  everything  I  could 
want ;  the  servants  were  made  to  take  great 
care  of  me,  and  my  father  made  a  rule  of  see- 
ing me  at  least  once  every  day,  and  asking 
me  if  I  had  everything  I  wished  for ;  and  if 
there  was  any  fancy  ungratified  I  had  only 
to  say  so,  and  the  order  was  given  to  get  me 
what  I  desired.  But  his  manner  was  cold 
and  stern,  and  I  do  not  remember  his  ever 
kissing  me.  My  brothers  were  scarcely  ever 
at  home ;  they  were  at  school,  aiid  afterwards 


HABBY'S  PERPLEXITY.  223 

went  into  a  house  of  business  abroad  for  a 
time." 

"  Why,  mamma,  you  must  have  been 
dreadfully  lonely." 

"  I  was,  and  should  have  been  more  so  but 
for  your  dear  father.  He  was  the  son  of  an 
old  friend  of  my  father's,  who  had  failed  in 
business,  and  died  very  poor,  leaving  this 
one  son.  He  was  the  youngest  clerk  in  my 
father's  house,  and  it  was  his  duty  to  come 
every  morning  with  papers  from  the  office 
for  my  father  to  look  over.  Then  he  used  to 
walk  with  me  to  school  on  his  way  back,  as 
it  did  not  delay  him.  My  father  asked  him 
to  do  this,  because  one  day  a  beggar  fright- 
ened me  and  my  maid  as  we  were  going  alone. 
This  came  to  be  my  happy  time ;  he  was  so 
bright  and  cheerful,  and  so  kind  to  me.  I 
never  heard  kind,  loving  words  but  from 
him.  Then  I  grew  older,  and  ceased  to  go  to 
school,  but  I  took  lessons  in  music,  and  used 
to  go  to  my  master's  house,  attended  by  a 
servant.  My  time  for  returning  was  later 
than  the  hour  for  closing  the  counting-house, 


224  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

and  Frank  never  failed  to  meet  me,  and  walk 
home  with  me.  We  were  very  young,  and 
meant  no  harm,  doing  it  quite  openly ;  but  I 
think  my  maid  was  much  to  blame,  for  she 
must  have  known  that  my  father  would  not 
have  approved  of  these  meetings." 

"And  then  he  found  you  out,  and  was 
awfully  angry,"  said  Harry,  who  was  much 
interested  in  his  mother's  story. 

"  Not  exactly.  Frank  himself  spoke  to 
him.  I  had  left  off  taking  lessons,  and  so 
we  seldom  met  each  other,  and  I  was  very 
lonely  and  unhappy.  So  Frank,  who  would 
not  willingly  have  deceived  any  one,  went 
to  my  father  and  told  him  how  fond  we  were 
of  each  other,  asking  leave  to  come  and  see 
me  sometimes ;  but  my  father  was  very  an- 
gry indeed,  and  having  sent  forme,  he  told  me 
unless  I  promised  never  to  walk  with  Frank 
or  see  him  any  more  he  would  dismiss  him 
at  once,  without  a  moment's  notice.  I  was 
frightened,  but  still  at  first  I  tried  to  per- 
suade him  to  allow  us  to  see  each  other,  but 
all  in  vain.  So  I  promised,  and  kept  my 


HABEY'S  PERPLEXITY.  225 

promise  for  a  long  time  —  a  whole  year. 
And  it  was  the  most  miserable  year  I  ever 
spent.  One  day,  quite  by  accident,  I  met 
Frank;  we  could  not  pass  by  without  a 
word,  and  I  could  not  conceal  from  him  how 
unhappy  I  was.  After  that  we  met  again, 
not  by  accident." 

"  And  quite  right  of  you ! "  exclaimed 
Harry. 

"  No,  my  dear  boy.  It  was  very  wrong  — 
in  me  particularly.  I  was  disobeying  my 
father  and  breaking  my  promise.  I  knew  it 
was  wrong,  but  was  too  weak  to  resist  the 
temptation,  and,  as  you  will  see,  I  have  been 
punished.  At  last  some  one  told  my  father. 
He  kept  his  word,  and  dismissed  Frank  with- 
out giving  him  a  character.  Then  he  sent 
for  his  sister  to  live  with  him  and  take  care 
of  me.  She  was  not  kind  to  me,  making  me 
feel  always  that  I  was  in  disgrace,  and  my 
father  was  less  like  a  father  even  than  before. 
I  am  not  saying  this  in  anger,  Harry.  I  wish 
I  could  tell  you  my  story  without  blaming 
my  father  in  any  way,  but  I  must  tell  you 


226  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

the  whole  truth,  or  you  might  think  that 
your  father  had  been  more  to  blame  than  he 
was  —  for  the  fault  was  chie%  mine.  You 
are  too  young  to  understand  this  part  of  my 
story  very  well,  so  I  shall  not  dwell  upon  it ; 
my  father  told  me  plainly  that  if  I  married 
Frank  he  would  never  forgive  me,  or  see  me 
again.  *  You  have  deceived  me,  Mary,'  he 
said,  'but  you  are  very  young,  and  I  will 
forgive  you  this  once,  but  only  on  condition 
that  you  obey  me  henceforth.'  We  thought 
he  would  not  keep  his  word,  and  that  when 
we  were  married  he  would  forgive  us  in 
time,  but  he  never  has." 

Mrs.  Rivers  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes, 
and  Harry,  thought  he  wanted  very  much  to 
comfort  her,  did  not  know  how  to  set  about 
it.  Presently  she  went  on  : 

"  The  little  money  we  had  to  begin  with 
was  soon  spent.  Frank  could  get  no  em- 
ployment because  my  father  would  not  rec- 
ommend him,  and  when  you  were  born, 
Harry,  we  were  in  actual  want.  In  despair, 
Frank  applied  for  employment  on  the  Great 


HAKBY'S  PERPLEXITY.  227 

Western,  and  was  accepted.  He  took  the 
post  gladly  for  our  sakes,  though  it  is  so 
much  beneath  him.  But  you  see,  Harry,  I 
cannot  forget  that  I  brought  him  down  to 
this ;  and  I  cannot  help  crying,  even  now, 
when  I  think  of  it." 

Harry  threw  down  his  piece  of  chalk  and 
came  to  her  side. 

"Mother  darling,"  he  said,  kissing  her 
fondly,  "you  must  not  fret  about  that !  He 
would  rather  be  a  railway  guard,  and  have 
you  and  May  and  me  at  home,  than  be  a 
rich  merchant  without  us.  Why,  only  the 
other  day  he  said  to  me  that  no  honest  work 
is  beneath  an  honest  man,  and  I  quite  agree 
with  him  ;  and  your  father  is  a  savage  old 
Turk,  and  soonar  than  be  obliged  to  him  I'll 
sweep  a  crossing  !  Where's  his  old  card  ?  I 
shall  just  walk  downstairs  and  put  it  into 
the  kitchen  fire." 

"No,  no,  Harry  !  keep  it,  dear.  I  like  to 
think  that  your  grandfather  liked  you,  even 
though  he  did  not  know  who  you  were. 
And  you  may  need  his  help  some  day,  though 
you  don't  think  so  now." 


228  HARBY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

"  Well,  I  shall  keep  it  to  please  you,  mam- 
ma. There,  I  have  stowed  it  away  in  my 
cupboard :  but  I  think  it  will  be  some  time 
before  I  ask  him  for  help  —  old  Turk." 

These  last  words  were  muttered  into  the 
cupboard,  on  the  lowest  shelf  of  which, 
among  nails,  tops,  bits  of  string,  old  mar- 
bles, and  other  boyish  treasures,  Mr.  Mar- 
shall's card  was  flung.  Just  then  the  door 
bell  rang  and  Harry  ran  downstairs,  present- 
ly returning  with  his  friend  and  schoolfel- 
low, Owen  Eastwood. 

Mrs.  Rivers  was  much  pleased  to  see  that 
her  boy's  chosen  friend  was  a  steady -looking 
youth  at  least  two  years  his  senior.  Owen, 
on  his  part,  was  much  attracted  by  Mrs. 
Rivers'  gentle  countenance  and  pleasing 
manners,  and  by  the  beauty  of  little  May. 
But  as  soon  as  he  had  begun  to  look  at  Har- 
ry's drawings,  it  was  plain  that  he  had  eyes 
for  nothing  else. 

"  Who  teaches  you,  Rivers?  " 

"  Why,  nobody !  "  said  Harry,  laughing. 

"  And  you  have  no  copy  but  the  one  in 
Regent  Street?" 


HABRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  229 

"None.  I  must  go  again  before  I  finish 
the  hands.  I  have  not  got  them  quite  right, 
have  I  ? " 

"  I  think  not,  but  I  am  no  great  judge, 
I'm  sorry  to  say." 

He  went  on  looking  at  the  drawings  and 
turning  them  over  much  longer  than  Harry, 
who  was  burning  with  impatience  to  be  off, 
thought  at  all  necessary.  At  last  he  selected 
two  or  three  sketches,  and  said, 

"  Will  you  lend  me  these,  Harry  ?  " 

"  Oh  certainly  —  indeed,  if  you  care  for 
them,  I  will  give  them  to  you.  But  they 
are  not  worth  having." 

"  We  shall  see  about  that.  I  am  going  to 
show  them  to  my  father." 

"  Oh  no,  Owen!  please  don't.  Your  father 
will  laugh  at  me." 

"  I  don't  think  he  will ;  at  all  events  I 
mean  to  try.  But  I  will  wait  till  you  are 
gone,  Rivers,  so  you  need  not  look  so  un- 
happy." 

"  Oh,  all  right  then  !  "  said  Harry  bright- 
ening up  again.  "  Shall  we  go  now  ?  " 


230  HABBY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

Owen  Eastwood  lived  near  Kensington 
gardens,  in  a  fine,  large  house  with  a  pretty 
garden,  for  his  father  was  making  a  great 
deal  of  money.  It  was  getting  dusk  when 
the  two  boys  arrived  there ;  but  dark  as  it 
was  they  found  the  artist,  Paul  Eastwood, 
still  at  work.  He  received  Harry  very 
kindly,  and  when  he  saw  how  delighted 
the  boy  was  with  the  pictures,  he  left  his 
easel  and  showed  him  many  paintings  and 
sketches,  talking  away  to  him  in  a  loud, 
cheery  .voice  like  a  great  bell.  Harry  was 
as  happy  as  a  king,  as  the  saying  goes ;  much 
happier  than  poor  little  King  Louis  the  xvii., 
at  all  events. 

At  last  it  was  quite  dark,  and  Harry  re- 
membered that  his  father  would  be  coming 
'lome  soon ;  so  he  thanked  Mr.  Eastwood 
rery  heartily  and  said  good-bye.  Owen 
vent  with  him  to  the  door  and  then  re- 
"urned  to  the  studio,  where  he  found  his 
father,  with  a  candle  in  his  hand,  standing 
before  his  easel  again,  intently  looking  at 
the  picture  on  it. 


HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  231 

-'  You  are  not  going  to  work  any  more, 
are  you,  father  ?  " 

"No:  only  a  last  look  at  my  day's  work. 
Look  here,  Owen,  don't  you  think  that 
middle  distance  —  but  I  forget,  boy,  you 
know  nothing  about  it.  Ah,  Owen  I  I  wish 
you  were  more  of  an  artist." 

"  Well,  dear  dad,  I  am  sure  you  cannot 
wish  it  more  than  I  do  ;  if  wishes  would  do 
it,  or  hard  work  either,  an  artist  I  should 
assuredly  be." 

"  Quite  true,  Owen !  I  know  you  did 
your  best." 

"But  look  at  these  sketches,  father  — 
what  do  you  think  of  them?"  said  Owen, 
producing  Harry's  attempts.  "  I  think  I 
have  known  few  boys  who  could  draw  like 
this  untaught." 

Mr.  Eastwood  glanced  at  the  drawings, 
carelessly  at  first,  but  after  that  first  look 
he  seized  them  and  held  them  up  to  catch 
the  light. 

"  Untaught,  you  call  him!  Ah,  there's 
nature's  teaching  here  I  Light  the  gas, 


232  HAEEY'S  PEEPLBXITY. 

Owen ;  let  me  see  them  well.     Good  —  good 

—  wonderfully  good.     Owen,  if  these  were 
your  own,  I  should  be  a  happy  man.     There 
is  life  here  ;  look  at  that  pretty  little  child, 
all  smiles  and  dimples,  and  the  woman  so 
quiet  and  sad ;  and  the  cat  —  oh,  that  cat 
alone  is  worth  anything.     Capital,  capital ! 
What  this  ?     Copied  from  Landseer  — '  Dig- 
nity and  Impudence '  —  but  it  is  not  nearly 
as  good  as  I  should  have  expected  from  the 
sketches." 

"  But  when  I  tell  you  the  print  hung  in  a 
shop  window,  and  that  the  artist  never  saw 
it  except  from  the  street  ?  " 

"  You  don't  mean  it !  then  it  is  wonderful 

—  wonderful.     Good   training  for   the   eye, 
too  ;  otherwise  copying  prints  is  a  sad  waste 
of  time.     Who  is  it,  Owen  ?     The  boy  with 
the  bright  brown  eyes  who  was  here  just 
now  ?     I'm  sure  it  is  he — he  looked  clever." 

"You  are  right;  that  is  the  very  fellow, 
Harry  Rivers.  I  wish  you  could  see  the 
drawing  he  is  doing  now ;  it  is  that  print 
of  the  poor  little  Dauphin,  you  know.  It 


HABEAS   PERPLEXITY.  233 

la  not  finished,  but  you  should  see  the  eyes  ; 
so  vacant,  and  yet  so  sad." 

«'  He's  a  genius,  that's  what  he  is.  I  must 
see  about  him;  that  boy's  worth  helping. 
Who  is  he,  Owen  ?  What  are  his  pa- 
rents?" 

"  Well,  they  are  a  mystery  to  me.  His 
father  is  a  guard  on  the  Great  Western,  and 
he  is  one  of  the  handsomest  men  I  ever 
saw ;  and  quite  a  gentleman.  His  mother  I 
never  saw  till  to-day,  but  though  she  is  a 
dressmaker,  and  was  hard  at  work,  you 
could  never  doubt  that  she  is  a  lady.  Har- 
ry is  at  my  school,  and  some  of  the  fellows 
hold  him  at  arm's  length  because  his  father 
is  only  a  railway  guard,  but  I  like  him  bet- 
ter than  any  of  them.  It  was  only  the 
other  day  I  found  out  that  he  is  so  fond 
of  drawing." 

"  Fond  of  drawing  !  "  shouted  Mr.  East- 
wood. "  A  born  artist,  you  mean  !  He  must 
be  an  artist.  I  must  see  about  him.  I  shall 
go  to-morrow  and  offer  to  teach  him.  It  will 
be  a  pleasure  to  teach  a  fellow  like  that." 


234  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

Poor  Owen  sighed.  This  was  what  he 
had  hoped  for  when  he  brought  Harry's 
drawings  home  with  him,  and  he  was  glad  ; 
but  still  he  could  not  help  sighing.  He  loved 
his  warm-hearted,  noisy  father  dearly,  and 
had  worked  very  hard  to  please  him,  but  in 
vain.  God  had  denied  to  the  artist's  son  the 
gift  which  Harry  Rivers  had  in  such  rich 
measure,  and  try  as  he  would  he  could  never 
draw  well  enough  to  please  Mr.  Eastwood. 

The  next  day,  at  about  twelve  o'clock 
Mrs.  Rivers  was  surprised  to  hear  a  very 
loud  and  very  long  rap  at  her  door.  The  little 
girl  who  was  her  only  servant  was  out,  so  she 
was  obliged  to  lay  down  her  work  and  go  to 
the  door  herself.  There  she  found  a  tall  man, 
with  bright  merry  eyes  and  an  immense 
curly  beard.  He  was  quite  a  stranger  to  her, 
and  she  could  not  imagine  what  he  had  come 
for.  However,  she  was  not  left  long  in  doubt, 
for  the  stranger  began,  in  a  rich  deep  voice 
—  so  musical  that  one  forgot  how  loud  it 
was: 

"My  name,  ma'am,   is  Eastwood — Paul 


HABRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  235 

Eastwood,  the  artist ;  perhaps  you  have 
heard  of  me.  My  boy,  Owen,  brought  your 
son  to  my  house  yesterday,  and  I  have  come 
here  to  ask  you  a  question  about  him." 

"  Pray  come  in,  sir,  "  said  Mrs.  Rivers.  "  I 
shall  have  to  ask  you  to  walk  up  a  great 
many  stairs,  for  all  the  lower  part  of  our 
house  is  let. " 

"  You  are  Mrs.  Rivers,  then  — good  guess 
that  of  mine.  I  knew  it  by  your  eyes,  ma'am, 
for  your  son  has  just  the  same." 

They  soon  arrived  at  Mrs.  Rivers'  sitting- 
room,  where  May  ran  to  her  mother  as  soon 
as  she  saw  the  stranger. 

"  What  a  lovely  child  !  "  exclaimed  Mr. 
Eastwood.  "  Just  the  innocent  blue  eyes  I 
want  for  my  *  Red  Riding  Hood.'  Will  you 
lend  her  to  me,  Mrs.  Rivers?  Don't  look  so 
frightened,  baby,  I'm  not  the  wolf,  though  I 
do  want  you  for  '  Red  Riding  Hood.'  " 

Mrs.  Rivers,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  was 
beginning  to  repent  of  her  invitation  to  the 
artist  to  enter  her  house.  She  saw  but  few 
people  in  the  course  of  her  quiet  life,  and  he 


236  HARBY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

was  so  noisy,  and  so  unlike  any  one  she 
knew,  that  she  half  feared  he  was  mad. 

"  Now,  ma'am,"  began  he,  seating  himself 
and  looking  about  him.  "  Time  is  money, 
you  know,  and  I  must  not  waste  either  yours 
or  my  own.  My  son,  ma'am  —  a  very  good 
boy  he  is,  though  he'll  never  be  an  artist,  I'm 
sorry  to  say  —  showed  me  some  drawings  of 
your  son's  last  night.  Mrs.  Rivers,  if  your 
boy  were  cast  upon  a  desert  island  alone,  he 
would  be  an  artist." 

"  An  artist,  sir !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Rivers. 

"  Couldn't  help  it,  ma'am,"  roared  Mr. 
Eastwood,  excitedly  ;  "  and  all  the  king's 
horses  and  all  the  king's  men  couldn't  stop 
him,  either.  But,  of  course,  he  would  get  on 
quicker  and  better  if  he  had  a  little  help  now, 
and  that  help  I  shall  be  proud  to  give  him. 
What  do  you  mean  to  make  him  ?  " 

"  We  have  hardly  thought  of  that  yet. 
Harry  is  only  twelve.  Perhaps  he  may  get 
a  place  as  a  clerk  by-and-by." 

"  A  clerk  I  a  counter-jumper,  when  he 
might  be  a  Landseer !  Mrs.  Rivers,  you 


HAERY'S  PERPLEXITY.  237 

would  not  put  a  race-horse  in  a  plough,  would 
you  ?  "  • 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Rivers,  more  than  ever 
convinced  that  he  was  mad. 

"  No,  no  ;  let  him  begin  at  once  to  study 
with  me.  If  he  likes  to  make  art  his  profes- 
sion, he  might  do  worse  than  begin  with  me. 
I'll  make  something  of  him,  I  assure  you, 
ma'am." 

Mrs.  Rivers  looked  quite  bewildered. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  she  at  last  inquired, 
"  that  my  Harry  has  talent  enough  to  be  an 
artist?" 

"  Most  emphatically  I  do,  ma'am.  I  can- 
not say  yet,  of  course,  whether  he  has  a  nat- 
ural eye  for  color,  though  from  the  remarks 
he  made  last  night  I  should  think  it  likely. 
But  his  sketches  are  full  of  talent  —  of  genius, 
ma'am,  genius.  There's  a  cat,  Mrs.  Rivers, 
in  one  of  those  sketches  that  Owen  brought 
home,  that  I  may  say  mewed  at  me  ;  did, 
ma'am,  I  assure  you.  Have  you  any  of  his 
drawings  at  hand  ?  " 

By  this  time  Mrs.  Rivers  was  beginning  to 


238  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

understand  her  visitor  better,  so  she  went  to 
Harry's  cupboard  and  brought  out  a  number 
of  his  drawings.  After  a  little  more  conver- 
sation, Mr.  Eastwood  repeated  his  offer 
about  Harry,  and  his  mother  began  to  think 
how  happy  it  would  make  him. 

"But  I  must  tell  you  plainly,  Mr.  East- 
wood, that  we  are  very  poor.  We  could  not 
afford  —  " 

"  I  understand  that  perfectly.  Never  mind 
that,  Mrs.  Rivers.  I  am  well  to  do  now,  and 
can  give  Owen  a  decent  education  ;  but  I 
was  a  poor  boy  once,  and  owe  everything  to 
a  kind-hearted  old  lady  who  took  a  fancy  to 
me.  Now  I  can  do  the  same  for  Harry." 

"  My  husband  must  decide ;  but  I  feel 
sure  he  will  be  delighted  that  Harry  should 
have  such  a  chance.  He  will  be  home  at 
about  five  o'clock,  and  I  will  tell  him  at  once 
of  your  kind  offer.  Believe  me,  Mr.  East- 
wood, we  shall  never  forget  your  kindness." 

"  Then  I  shall  say  good-bye,  now,  ma'am. 
And  if  all  goes  well,  you  will  let  Harry  bring 
4  Red  Riding  Hood '  to  my  studio  some  day, 
won't  you  ?  " 


HABBY'S  PERPLEXITY.  239 

"Indeed  I  shall,  with  pleasure.  Good- 
bye, Mr.  Eastwood." 

When  Frank  Rivers  came  home,  tired  and 
hungry,  Mrs.  Rivers  no  sooner  saw  him 
comfortably  seated  at  his  dinner,  than  she 
told  him  her  story. 

"  Think  of  Harry,  our  Harry,  being  a 
genius,  Frank.  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Eastwood 
seemed  quite  surprised  at  his  drawings." 

"  It  is  a  long  time  since  I  saw  them,  but  I 
remember  thinking  them  rather  amazing  for 
such  a  little  fellow.  Where  does  he  keep 
them  ?  In  the  cupboard  ?  Get  your  bon- 
net and  shawl,  Mary,  and  we  will  go  togeth- 
er to  Mr.  Eastwood's  ;  it  will  be  a  nice  walk 
for  you." 

"  But  Frank,  dear,  are  you  not  too  tired 
to  go  out  again  ?  You  looked  so  tired  when 
you  came  in." 

"  So  I  was,  but  this  good  news  and  my 
good  dinner  have  quite  set  me  up  again. 
Why,  Mary,  only  think  what  a  thing  this 
may  be  for  Harry !  " 

**  I  thought  you  would  be  pleased,  dear." 


240  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

"  Of  course  I  am.  It  will  be  the  greatest 
comfort  to  me  to  know  that  our  son  will 
have  a  chance  of  rising  to  a  position  in  life 
as  good  as  that  from  which  I  took  you,  dear. 
Not  that  I  think  we  could  have  cared  more 
for  each  other  if  we  had  been  rich  —  could 
we,  Mary?" 

"No;  oh  no,  indeed,"  she  answered, 
quickly. 

They  found  Mr.  Eastwood  at  home,  and 
much  pleased  was  he  to  find  that  he  was  to 
have  his  own  way  about  Harry.  It  was  ar- 
ranged that  for  the  future  the  boy  should 
leave  school  at  twelve  o'clock,  go  home  for 
his  dinner,  and  spend  the  rest  of  the  day  at 
Mr.  Eastwood's. 

When  Harry  was  informed  of  this  arrange- 
ment, his  delight  knew  no  bounds.  The  boy 
loved  his  drawing  for  its  own  sake,  without 
a  thought  beyond  the  present  pleasure ;  but 
now  he  began  to  dream  of  all  the  fine  things 
he  would  do  when  he  was  earning  money  as 
an  artist.  His  mother  should  make  no  more 
dresses ;  his  father  should  cease  to  be  a  rail- 


HARBY'S  PERPLEXITY.  241 

way  guard ;  while  as  for  the  toys,  bright 
sashes,  and  white  frocks  that  were  to  be 
provided  for  May,  half-a-dozen  little  girls 
could  not  have  used  them  all. 

Mr.  Eastwood  was  very  proud  of  his 
pupil's  progress,  which  was  really  very  rapid  ; 
for,  besides  his  decided  talent,  Harry  had 
the  yet  more  precious  gift  of  industry.  He 
did  not  care  how  hard  he  worked,  allowing 
himself  no  idle  time ;  but  it  did  not  hurt 
him,  as  he  got  plenty  of  fresh  air  in  his  daily 
wnlks  to  Kensington,  and  was  very  happy  in 
his  new  life. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  MEMORABLE  CONVERSATION. 

j|WO  years  passed  away,  and  the 
greater  part  of  a  third,  and  things 
remained  unaltered  in  the  Rivers' 
family.  Harry  was  now  fifteen,  a  tall, 
strong  lad  for  his  age,  working  harder  than 
ever  under  Mr.  Eastwood. 

It  was  a  bright  warm  day  in  July,  and 
Mrs.  Rivers  was  laying  by  her  work  care- 
fully— for  May  was  restless,  and  she  thought 
she  would  take  her  out  for  a  little  fresh  air 
—  when  her  servant  came  upstairs  and  told 
her  that  there  was  a  gentleman  at  the  door 
asking  to  see  the  rooms  she  had  to  let ;  for 
one  of  her  lodgers  had  just  gone  away.  She 

242 


HARBY'S  PERPLEXITY.  '          243 

went  down  at  once,  followed  by  May,  who 
liked  to  see  all  that  was  to  be  seen. 

The  gentleman  proved  to  be  a  person  she 
knew  very  well  by  sight  —  Mr.  Godfrey,  a 
young  clergyman,  who  had  not  long  before 
been  appointed  one  of,  the  curates  of  the 
church  which  the  Rivers  attended.  He  rec- 
ognized her  too,  for  she  was  a  regular  at- 
tendant. 

"  I  think,"  said  he,  in  a  pleasant  voice, 
"  that  we  are  not  quite  strangers.  I  have 
seen  you  and  your  little  girl  at  St.  Marga- 
ret's, have  I  not?" 

"Yes,  sir;  and  you  are  Mr.  Godfrey,  I 
think?  My  husband  knows  you;  he  is  in 
the  choir,  though  he  cannot  attend  regu- 
larly ;  but  Mr.  Lawrence  is  kind  enough  to 
overlook  that,  as  he  knows  he  cannot  help 
it." 

"Is  that  Mr.  Rivers  your  husband?  I 
know  him  a  little  already,  then,  and  should 
like  to  know  him  better.  He  has  a  most 
beautiful  voice." 

"He  has,  sir,  and  is  so  very  fond  of 
music." 


244  HARRY'S 


"  I  called  to-day,  seeing  a  hill  in  your 
window,  Mrs.  Rivers.  I  waut  lodgings  in 
this  neighborhood,  as  it  will  be  much  more 
convenient  to  me  to  be  near  my  work.  And 
I  want  them  immediately  ;  I  should  like  to 
come  in  to-night  if  I  could." 

Mrs.  Rivers  showed  him  her  tv  «  unoccu- 
pied rooms,  and  he  declared  hinrj^li  quite 
satisfied  with  them  ;  but  the  rent,  he  said, 
was  beyond  his  means. 

"  Not  that  they  are  too  high,"  he  added  ; 
"  for  they  are  so  nicely  furnished  that  I  am 
sure  they  are  quite  worth  it,  but  they  are 
too  high  for  me.  I  must  try  somewhere 
else." 

"  Could  you  wait  until  evening,  Mr.  God- 
frey, before  looking  elsewhere  ?  I  don't  like 
to  settle  anything  without  my  husband's  ad- 
vice, but  I  am  quite  sure  that  he  will  agree 
with  me  that  we  had  better  let  you  have  the 
rooms  for  what  you  offer  than  keep  them 
empty.  It  is  a  bad  time  of  the  year  to  let 
lodgings,  and  you  will  most  likely  be  a  per- 
manent tenant." 


HAEEY'S  PEEPLEXITY.  245 

"  Yes ;  but,  you  see,  I  must  find  a  lodging 
before  night,  for  my  present  landlady  has  let 
the  rooms  I  am  leaving." 

"  Well,  sir,  Frank  will  be  home  before 
five,  and  he  will  be  going  to  evening  service, 
so  if  you  are  to  be  there,  that  will  not  be  too 
late,  will  it  ?  For  I  am  quite  certain  he  will 
be  satisfied." 

"  That  will  do  very  well  indeed,  thank 
you.  By  the  way,  Mr.  Rivers  sometimes 
has  a  tall  intelligent-looking  lad  with  him ; 
is  he  one  of  your  family  ?  " 

"  Our  son  Harry.  He  is  studying  under 
Mr.  Eastwood,  the  artist,  and  they  say  he  is 
very  clever." 

"  Oh,  I  know  Eastwood  very  well  indeed. 
Is  your  son  the  pupil  he  is  always  talking  of  ? 
He  thinks  very  highly  of  him.  I  hope  he 
and  I  may  be  good  friends,  I  like  his  appear- 
ance so  much.  He  has  a  good,  honest,  intel- 
ligent face." 

After  a  few  more  words,  Mr.  Godfrey 
went  away,  and  Mrs.  Rivers  proceeded  to 
get  her  rooms  ready  for  their  new  tenant. 


246  HARRY'S  PEEPELXITY. 

Harry  and  his  father  came  home  at  about  the 
same  time,  and  heard  of  Mr.  Godfrey's  visit, 
and  her  agreement  with  him. 

"You  were  quite  right,  Mary.  He  will 
be  a  quiet,  pleasant  lodger,  and  we  should 
be  very  foolish  not  to  take  him  in.  I  shall 
see  him  after  service ;  can  you  come  with 
me,  Mary?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  I  cannot ;  but  Harry  can.  I 
got  very  little  work  done  to-day,  and  there 
is  a  dress  promised  early  to-morrow." 

"Can  you  come,  Harry?  Come  along, 
then,  for  it  is  too  hot  to  walk  fast,  so  we  had 
better  go  at  once.  We  shall  have  time  for  a 
walk  afterwards,  if  you  care  to  come." 

"  Indeed  I  do  ;  and  so  does  May.  I  may 
as  well  bring  her  with  me.  If  she  gets  tired 
I  can  carry  her  a  bit.*' 

"  Bring  her  by  all  means ;  but  she  is  get- 
ting too  much  of  a  young  woman  to  be  car- 
ried now  —  eh,  May  blossom  ?  " 

"  That's  not  my  name  now,  papa.  Dame 
Trot  is  my  new  name.  Harry  has  made  a 
picture  of  me,  with  a  peaky  hat,  and  shoes 


HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  247 

with  such  high  heels  and  big  buckles,  and  he 
calls  it  Dame  Trot.  So  I  shall  trot  upon  my 
own  feet,  shan't  I,  Harry  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  Dame  Trot,  if  you  prefer  it. 
Let  me  see  to  your  hat,  dear.  Mamma,  do 
come  I  Never  mind  that  tiresome  dress,  but 
come  with  us." 

"  I  wish  I  could.  I  really  think  I  might 
manage  to  go  to  church  with  you,  if  you  will 
promise  not  to  mind  me  afterwards,  but  to 
go  for  your  walk." 

"  We  promise,"  said  Frank,  smiling. 
"Come  at  once,  or  we  shall  be  too  late." 

"  They  were  soon  on  their  way  to  the 
church,  whose  sweet-toned  bell  was  giving 
notice  of  the  evening  service.  Frank  went 
to  his  place  in  the  choir,  and  his  wife  and 
son  listened  for  his  voice  in  the  singing.  It 
happened  that  there  were  but  few  of  the 
choir  present  that  evening,  and  when  the 
hymn  was  sung,  it  seemed  to  those  two  as  if 
the  voice  they  loved  were  singing  it  alone. 
It  was  that  beautiful  hymn,  "  Lead,  Kindly 
Light,"  and  as  the  words,  and  the  conversa- 


248  HABBY'S  PBRPLEXITY. 

tion  about  them  with  his  father,  were  im- 
pressed very  strongly  upon  Harry  Rivers  by 
circumstances  which  followed  that  quiet 
church-going,  I  shall  give  it  here  in  full,  in 
case  my  readers  may  not  be  acquainted  with 
it:  — 

"  Lead,  Kindly  Light,  amid  the  encircling  gloom 

Lead  Thou  me  on ; 
The  night  is  dark,  and  I  am  far  from  home, 

Lead  Thou  me  on. 

Keep  Thou  my  feet ;  I  do  not  ask  to  see 
The  distant  scene ;  one  step  enough  for  me. 

I  was  not  ever  thus,  nor  prayed  that  Thou 
Shouldst  lead  me  on; 

I  loved  to  choose  and  see  my  path ;  hut  now 
Lead  Thou  me  on. 

I  loved  the  garish  day,  and,  spite  of  fears, 

Pride  ruled  my  will:  remember  not  past  yean. 

So  long  Thy  power  hath  blest  me,  sure  it  stfll 

Will  lead  me  on  — 
O'er  moor  and  fen,  o'er  crag  and  torrent,  till 

The  night  is  gone, 

And  with  the  morn  those  angel  faces  smile 
Which  I  have  loved  long  since,  and  lost  awhile." 

Harry  listened,  his  whole  soul  filled  with 
the  beauty  of  the  music;  but  the  words 


HABBY'S  PEBPLBXITY.  249 

seemed  to  him  strange  and  unnatural.  He 
looked  into  his  father's  face,  and  thought, 
"  In  what  perfect  harmony  his  feelings  and 
the  words  he  is  singing  seem  to  be."  Then 
he 'glanced  at  his  mother  ;  her  quiet,  earnest 
countenance  seemed  a  reflection  of  her  hus- 
band's. 

"They  understand  it,"  thought  Harry, 
"but  I  don't.  I  cannot  understand  any 
one's  feeling  like  that.  '  One  step  enough 
for  me ' —  not  to  *  ask  to  see  my  future 
path ! '  oh  no,  I  like  to  see  it ;  to  think  of 
the  time  when  I  shall  be  a  well-known 
artist,  like  Mr.  Eastwood,  earning  money 
enough  to  keep  my  mother  in  her  proper 
place,  and  to  give  May  all  she  can  wish  for. 
Should  I  work  so  hard  if  I  did  not  see  so 
plainly  before  me  the  reward  of  my  work  ? 
—  fame,  perhaps ;  the  opportunity  of  seeing 
all  the  wonders  of  art  —  Rome,  Florence. 
Oh  no,  I  could  not  get  along  without  '  see- 
ing my  path '  at  all." 

He  was  so  absorbed  in  these  and  similar 
thoughts,  that  the  service  was  over  and  hia 


250  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

mother  gone,  and  still  he  sat  there  thinking, 
with  May  beside  him,  wondering  to  see  him 
BO  abstracted.  Presently  his  father  came 
and  touched  him  on  the  arm  ;  Harry  started 
up  and  they  left  the  church  together. 

*'  Don't  you  want  to   see   Mr.   Godfrey, 
father?" 

"I  have  seen  him  in  the  vestry-room." 
"I  think  Harry  was  asleep,"  said  May, 
laughing,  "  only  his  eyes  were  open." 
"  Were  you  asleep,  Harry  ?  " 
"  No,  Dame  Trot,  only  thinking." 
The  streets  were  crowded  and  noisy,  so 
that  further    conversation    was    impossible 
just  then;  but  soon  they  entered  one  of 
the  parks,  and   having  found  a  quiet  spot 
with  a  vacant  seat  in  it,    Harry   and  his 
father  sat   down   to  rest,  letting   May  run 
about  to  amuse  herself. 

"  What  were  you  thinking  of  in  church 
this    evening,    Harry?     You    were    so  ab- 
sorbed that  I  could  not  help  observing  it." 
"  I  was  thinking  of  the  hymn." 
"The  one  we  were  singing?     Well,  it  ia 
*  beautiful  hymn ;  don't  you  think  so  ?  " 


HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  261 

"  Yes,  certainly  beautiful —  but  —  " 

"  But  what  ?  Go  on,  my  boy.  We  fire 
both  so  busy,  Harry,  that  we  see  less  of 
each  other  than  I  could  wish,  but  it  would 
be  a  bitter  grief  to  me  if  I  thought  that  you 
had  any  difficulties  —  any  thoughts,  which 
you  would  not  speak  of  to  me.  And  you 
frowned  so  this  evening  that  I  felt  sure 
something  was  puzzling  you." 

"  Well, yes,  father!  I  was  puzzled  by  that 
hymn.  Do  you  know  it  off  by  heart  ?  " 

"  No,  but  I  have  the  book  here." 

Mr.  Rivers  opened  the  hymn-book  and  put 
it  into  his  son's  hands. 

"  There  it  is.  Now,  my  son,  what  is  the 
puzzle  ?  " 

"  Why,  all  of  it,  father.  Is  it  possible,  is 
it  good,  that  any  one  should  feel  like  this  ? 
You  sang  it  as  if  you  felt  it,  and  mamma 
looked  as  if  she  understood  it  too.  But  I 
don't  feel  like  that  at  all ;  and  it  seems  im- 
possible that  I  ever  should." 

"  I  dare  say  it  does.  You  are  young  yet, 
Harry,  and  untried ;  this  is  the  expression  of 


252  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

the  feelings  of  one  who  has  been  tried,  who 
has  suffered,  and  learning  that  suffering  ia 
sent  to  teach  us." 

"  But  tell  me,  father,  do  you  really  feel 
like  that  ?  —  as  if  *  one  step '  is  enough  to 
see,  and  that  you  are  quite  content  to  take 
your  life  as  it  comes,  without  thinking  or 
planning  for  the  future? — for  that  is  what  it 
all  means,  if  I  understand  it  rightly.  Why, 
I  am  always  planning  for  the  future  !  You 
know  how  hard  I  work.  Do  you  think  I 
could  go  on  with  it  if  I  did  not  look  forward 
to  the  time  when  you  will  all  be  proud  of 
me  ?  when,  perhaps,  I  shall  be  a  rich  man, 
able  to  make  you  all  happy  ?  "  „ 

Frank  Rivers  sighed  slightly. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  I  had  plans  and  hopes 
like  these  too,  long  ago." 

"  And  were  they  wrong  ?  that's  what  I 
want  to  know." 

"Well,  I'm  not  very  good  at  talking, 
Harry;  some  of  these  days  we'll  get  Mr 
Godfrey  to  answer  that  question  better  than 
I  can.  But  suppose  now,  that  instead  of 


HABRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  253 

work  that  you  like,  and  that  holds  out  a 
prospect  of  fame  and  wealth,  you  were  tied 
to  work  that  you  could  not  like,  that  was 
quite  unlike  anything  you  were  brought  up 
to ;  what  would  you  do  then  ?  " 

Harry  pondered  the  question  for  a  while. 
"  I  don't  know,"  he  said ;  "  I  never  thought 
of  it.  Why  do  you  ask  me  ?  " 

"  Because  I  want  to  show  you  that  though 
your  conduct  is  so  good  —  for  I  know  it  is 
good,  Harry,  and  that  you  work  hard  — 
your  motives,  by  your  own  account  of  them, 
are  not  what  they  ought  to  be." 

"  Is  it  wrong,  then,"  said  Harry,  very 
warmly,  "  to  wish  to  get  on  in  the  world  — 
to  wish  to  raise  myself  and  those  I  love  ?  Is 
it  wrong  to  work  hard,  to  make  the  most  of 
powers  that  God  has  given  me?  Surely, 
father,  you  don't  mean  that  this  is  wrong  ?  " 

"  No,  I  do  not  indeed  ;  far  from  it." 

"  Then  what  do  you  mean  ?  I  don't  un- 
derstand at  all." 

"  You  have  not  answered  my  question  yet, 
you  know.  Suppose,  as  I  said  before  that 


264  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.    ' 

circumstances  should  compel  you  into  some 
way  of  life  that  you  did  not  like,  and  in 
which  you  were  not  cheered  by  the  hope  of 
rising  to  wealth  and  honor,  what  would  you 
do?" 

"  But  why  should  I  imagine  such  a  thing?  " 
asked  Harry,  half  laughing. 

"  The  world  is  full  of  changes  as  great  as 
that ;  but  my  motive  in  putting  this  question 
is  only  to  show  you  that  the  motives  you  tell 
me  you  are  guided  by  are  not  the  best  mo- 
tives. They  are  useful  only  when  your  duty 
and  your  inclination  run  on  the  same  rails. 
Now  that  proves  that  they  are  not  the  best 
motives  —  not  the  highest,  and  the  highest 
are  the  only  true  ones  that  will  help  you  to 
do  right  when  it  is  unpleasant." 

"And  these  highest  motives,  father  — 
what  are  they  ?  " 

"You  know  them,  Harry;  you  learned 
them  at  your  mother's  knee  long  ago." 

"  But  I  have  forgotten,"  said  Hariy  slow- 
ly. "  I  thought  I  was  doing  my  duty,  and 
that  you  were  satisfied  with  me." 


HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  255 

"  And  so  I  am,  my  dear  boy.  Neither  1 
nor  any  one  else  has  any  fault  to  find  with 
your  conduct.  But  I  don't  want  your  good- 
ness to  be  what  I  call  fair-weather  goodness  ; 
so  I  want  you  to  look  into  your  own  heart, 
remembering  that  '  the  heart  is  deceitful 
above  all  things,'  and  if  we  don't  examine  it 
some  day  we  shall  find  that  we  know  nothing 
of  what  is  in  it  at  all.  You  know  whose  ex- 
ample you  are  to  follow,  Harry.  Don't,  in 
all  your  hurry  of  work  and  interest,  forget 
the  simple,  true  lessons  your  dear  mother 
taught  you  when  you  were  a  little  fellow, 
no  bigger  than  May  is  now.  Rise  as  high  as 
you  may,  don't  forget  that  the  highest  life  is 
the  life  that  is  most  Christ-like;  that  the 
meanest  duty  done  for  his  sake  — because  it 
is  the  work  he  puts  into  our  hands,  to  be 
done  for  him  —  is  the  highest  work;  that 
the  work  most  admired  by  the  world,  if  done 
simply  to  please  ourselves,  is  not  duty, 
*  splendid  sin,'  as  some  writer  says.  And 
then,  if  ever  the  time  comes  to  you,  as  it 
does  to  most  people,  that  your  duty  and 


256  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

your  inclination  pull  different  ways,  this 
motive,  and  this  only,  will  give  you  strength 
to  stick  to  your  duty,  and  let  inclination 

go." 

"  It  seems  impossible,"  Harry  said,  in  a 
low  voice. 

"  What  seems  impossible,  my  son  ?  " 

"  What  you  spoke  of — following  His  ex- 
ample—  living  a  Christ-like  life.  Father, 
don't  be  shocked !  what  I  say  sounds  worse 
than  it  is  ;  I  am  not  used  to  talking  about 
such  things,  and  cannot  make  my  meaning 
plain." 

"  I  can  quite  understand  that.  I  have  such 
a  horror  of  getting  into  a  way  of  talking  re- 
ligion, it  seems  to  me  as  if  our  best  and  holiest 
feelings  begin  to  seem  unreal  if  we  discuss 
them  much,  and  perhaps  I  have  gone  too  far 
the  other  way,  and  not  talked  enough  to  you, 
my  dear  boy.  But  as  we  have  such  a  quiet 
opportunity  now,  let  us  have  a  good  talk 
while  we  are  about  it ;  and  don't  be  afraid  of 
shocking  me.  I  once  stood  where  you  stand 
now,  and  I  don't  forget  it.  Be  frank  with 


HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  257 

your  father,  Harry  —  who  knows  but  I  may 
be  able  to  help  you  ?  " 

**  I  am  sure  you  could,  if  I  could  say  all  I 
feel  —  but  that  seems  impossible  —  the  right 
words  won't  come.  One  thing  is  —  you  said 
just  now  we  were  to  follow  Christ's  example. 
Now,  he  was  God.  He  could  do  as  he 
liked." 

"  But  did  he  ?  "  said  Mr.  Rivers,  earnestly. 
"  Did  he  do  as  he  liked  ?  did  he  live  to  please 
himself?  —  or  did  he,  who  only  of  the  race  of 
man  had  the  power  to  choose  the  rank  in  life, 
the  way  in  life  to  which  he  should  be  born,  — 
did  he  choose  a  pleasant,  easy  life,  and  an 
honorable  place  in  the  world  ?  No ;  he  was 
born  among  a  conquered,  subject  people,  and 
even  among  them  he  chose  his  lot  among  the 
poor  and  lowly.  Why,  Harry,  if  you  think 
of  it,  his  life  was  one  long  example  of  the 
very  thing  I've  been  saying  to  you.  For  did 
he  not  spend  thirty  years  in  doing  such  work 
as  came  in  his  way,  so  quietly  and  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course,  that  the  very  people  he  lived 
among  seemed  to  have  had  no  idea  that  he 


258  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

was  anything  more  than '  the  carpenter's  son'  ? 
And  do  you  suppose  that  the  work  or  the  life 
was  congenial  to  him  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Harry,  "I  see  that.  Then, 
father,  why  did  he  do  it  ?  why  did  he  choose 
to  live  like  that  ?  People  would  have  thought 
a  great  deal  more  of  him  if  he  had  come  as  a 
great  king." 

"  But  would  they  have  loved  him  so  well  ? 
Now,  Harry,  we  have  come  to  the  heart  of 
the  matter.  Listen  well  while  I  try,  in  my 
blundering  way,  to  explain  it.  If  he  had 
come  as  a  great  king,  how  could  he  have 
been  an  example  for  struggling,  hard-work- 
ing people,  such  as  I  am,  for  instance  ?  But 
he  lived  much  such  a  life  of  toil,  poverty 
and  obscurity  as  I  live ;  therefore  I  know 
that  in  such  a  life  I  may  please  God  as  he 
did  ;  at  least,  I  mean  that  if  I  fail  to  please 
God  it  is  my  own  fault,  not  the  fault  of  my 
condition  in  life.  Then,  too,  when  the 
weather  is  bad  and  I  am  overtired,  and  in- 
clined to  be  down-hearted,  I  know  that  he 
knows  what  that  feels  like  —  he  sat  on 


BARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  259 

Jacob's  well,  being  weary  —  he  bore  it  all, 
and  why  ?  Because  he  loves  us,  because  he 
would  have  us  know  that  he  loves  us,  that 
he  knows  and  cares  and  is  truly  one  of  us, 
and  one  with  us — our  loving  Elder  Brother. 
Who  that  knows  this  grand  truth,  and  be- 
lieves it  heartily,  but  must  feel  that  work 
done  for  him  is  the  highest  work,  as  I  said 
before,  whether  in  itself  pleasant  or  unpleas- 
ant ?  Think  of  aU  he  did  for  the  love  of 
us,  and  do  your  work  for  the  love  of  him." 

"  I  always  thought  we  were  to  love  him 
because  he  died  for  us,  father ;  that's  what 
mamma  always  said." 

"  Assuredly ;  but  his  death  was  but  the 
crowning  act  of  his  life.  In  it  there  is  no 
example  for  us ;  he  died  for  our  salvation, 
and  we,  as  you  don't  need  to  be  told,  can 
save  neither  ourselves  nor  any  one  else ;  here 
we  can  only  adore  him  with  full  hearts. 
But,  for  example,  we  must  look  to  his  life 
of  patient,  quiet  self-denial  and  self-sacri- 
fice ;  of  meek  obedience,  '  fulfilling  all  right- 
eousness,' '  working  the  works  of  his  Father 


260  HABBY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

while  it  was  day,  because  the  night  was 
coming  when  no  man  could  work.'  Oh, 
Harry!  when  the  motive  is  love  to  Christ 
Jesus  the  Saviour,  the  meanest  toil  is 
sweetened,  and  the  obscurest  life  ennobled. 
But  you  are  quite  right  in  putting  his  death 
first,  for  without  it  his  example  would  have 
been  of  little  use.  As  well  might  he  tell  a 
dead  man  to  get  up  and  walk  without  giving 
him  life  first,  as  to  tell  us  to  follow  his  ex- 
ample while  we  are  dead  in  our  sins." 

"  We  live  because  he  died  ?  " 

"And  rose  again;  that  is  the  complete 
truth.  We  die  in  his  death,  and  are  buried 
with  him  in  baptism  —  so  that  in  his  resur- 
rection we  rise  to  a  new  life.  And  this  new 
life  we  live  in  him  and  to  him,  not  in  our 
own  strength,  or  to  ourselves." 

Harry  sat^  silent  thinking  it  over ;  and  the 
lather  said  no  more,  seeing  that  the  boy  was 
struck  by  what  had  passed.  At  last,  raising 
his  head  suddenly,  Harry  said,  "But  the 
hymn,  father ;  the  hymn  goes  farther  than 
this.  I  can  understand  what  you  have  been 


HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  261 

saying  now,  but  not  that  hymn.  Must  I  try 
to  feel  like  that  ?  For  it  does  seem  as  if  I 
never  could." 

"  Leave  that  to  time,  my  boy.  No  good 
is  ever  done  by  trying  to  force  ourselves  to 
feel  what  we  don't  really  feel  or  understand. 
I  don't  mind  promising  you  that  you  will 
understand  this  hymn  better  one  of  these 
days ;  time  was  when  it  would  have  puzzled 
me  as  much  as  it  does  you,  and  now  —  why, 
I  feel  as  if  it  had  been  written  for  me." 

"  Do  you  really,  father  ?  " 

"  Really !  I  believe  your  mother  has  told 
you  our  story,  has  she  not  ?  " 

"  Oh,  long  ago  ;  that  time  when  I  met  my 
grandfather." 

"  You  know,  then,  how  hard  I  tried  to 
find  some  opening  which  would  give  me  a 
chance  of  keeping  your  dear  mother  as  I 
hoped  to  keep  her  when -I  married  her  ;  but 
you  don't  know,  and  I  trust  and  pray  you 
never  may,  the  feelings  with  which  I  saw 
hope  after  hope  fail  me,  until  I  was  fo"ced 
to  go  into  my  present  situation  to  k«ep  b<s» 


262  HABRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

from  actual  want.  How  I  rebelled  at  first ! 
No  hope  of  rising,  no  scope  for  my  abilities, 
no  use  for  my  education.  Ah,  Harry,  I  soon 
saw  that  I  had  been  a  proud  rash  fool,  per- 
suading your  mother  to  disobey  her  father, 
and  never  doubting  that  I  could  do  wonders 
for  her.  And  see,  now,  how  God  has  led 
me,  step  by  step,  until  I  learned  what  I 
really  am  ;  punished  me  for  my  fault,  yet  in 
wrath  remembered  mercy ;  for,  in  spite  of 
poverty  and  hard  work,  we  have  been  very 
happy  together,  my  poor  Mary  and  I.  Do 
you  wonder  now  that  I  should  be  content 
simply  to  do  the  day's  work,  not  looking 
beyond  ?  Mine  is  a  hazardous  calling,  you 
know,  If  I  were  to  keep^  thinking  what 
would  become  of  Mary  and  you  children  if 
I  were  killed,  as  so  many  of  us  railway 
servants  are,  I  should  be  a  very  miserable 
man.  But  'one  step,'  you  see,  is  always 
clear ;  and  God  sees  it  all.  Come,  Harry,  it 
is  later  than  I  thought,  and  there  is  going  to 
be  a  shower,  I  am  afraid.  Find  May,  and 
let  us  be  going." 


HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  263 

Father  and  son  had  been  so  occupied  in 
their  conversation  that  they  had  not  observed 
the  threatening  aspect  of  the  sky :  a  sudden 
cloud  had  come  up,  with  lurid  edges,  and 
summer  lightning  played  against  its  dark 
curtain.  May  came  running  back  to  them  at 
Harry's  call,  and  they  set  off  towards  home 
at  a  good  pace,  May  running  between  them, 
holding  a  hand  of  each.  Presently  down 
came  the  rain  —  great  heavy  drops,  coming 
down  straight  from  the  black  cloud ;  then  a 
clap  of  thunder  was  heard,  and  May  got  a 
little  frightened. 

"  I  wish  we  were  at  home,"  she  said ;  "  I 
don't  like  the  thunder,  papa." 

"  Well,  pet,  we  are  pretty  near  home  now ; 
we  have  walked  well.  Your  nice  little  boots, 
Dame  Trot,  are  getting  sadly  splashed ;  but 
we  can't  help  that,  can  we  ?  I  wish  we  had 
brought  an  umbrella ;  but  who  would  have 
thought  it  would  rain  so  soon  ?  " 

Harry  took  no  part  in  trying  to  amuse  his 
little  sister's  thoughts  ;  he  was  too  full  of 
what  his  father  had  been  saying  to  him 


264  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

Poor  fellow,  he  was  destined  to  remembei 
that  conversation  as  long  as  he  lived,  and 
that  walk  through  the  splashing  rain,  and 
the  streets  crowded  with  people  who  had 
been  surprised  like  themselves,  and  were 
hurrying  home.  They  reached  the  crowded 
crossing  which  led  to  their  home. 

"  Go  first,  Harry ;  it  is  very  slippery,  and 
I  will  carry  May  across." 

As  he  spoke,  Frank  Rivers  lifted  his  little 
girl  in  his  strong  arms,  and  Harry  ran  on  be- 
fore him.  Harry  had  reached,  or  almost 
reached,  the  other  side,  when  there  was  a 
sudden  rush  of  people  —  a  cry  of  "  Out  of 
the  way  there!"  —  "Stop  that  horse!" 
Then  came  a  scream,  which  rose  distinct 
and  shrill  above  the  uproar.  Harry  looked 
round;  a  horse  and  carriage  were  dashing 
off  at  speed,  men  running  hither  and  thither, 
women  standing  terrified,  and  his  father  and 
May  were  lying  on  the  wet  ground.  Frank 
Rivers  lay  upon  the  stones  of  the  crossing, 
May  a  little  way  off.  She  had  not  ceased 
screaming  since  she  fell,  but  her  father  had 
never  moved. 


HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  265 

Harry  rushed  to  his  side ;  the  crowd  closed 
round  them,  and  there  was  no  lack  of  kind 
and  ready  help.  A  workman,  throwing 
down  his  tools,  raised  poor  Frank's  head, 
but  a  glance  showed  him,  and,  indeed,  all 
present,  except  his  young  son,  that  no  help 
could  avail  him. 

Harry  seemed  quite  stunned.  "  Who  did 
it  ?  who  did  it  ?  "  he  kept  saying,  wildly.  A 
gentleman  who  had  just  pushed  his  way 
through  the  crowd  laid  his  hand  upon  the 
boy's  shoulder  and  said, 

"  I  am  afraid  I  did  it.  My  horse  took  fright 
at  the  lightning  and  ran  away,  and  this  poor 
fellow  had  something  in  his  arms,  and  did  not 
see  how  near  we  were.  Who  is  he  ?  " 

"  It  is  my  father.  Oh,  sir,  send  for  a  doc- 
tor ;  perhaps  he  is  not  badly  hurt." 

"  I  am  a  doctor  myself.  Where  do  you 
live  ?  The  people  are  pressing  on  me  so  that 
I  can  see  nothing." 

"  Close  by ;  No  10,  Upper  Castle  Street." 

The  physician  had  knelt  down  beside 
Harry  and  looked  at  his  father  ;  now  he  stood 


266  HABBY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

up,  and  said  gently  and  gravely,  "  Go  you  to 
the  child,  my  boy ;  I  will  see  your  father 
carried  home." 

Poor  Harry  was  still  so  stupefied  that  he 
obeyed  without  a  word,  and  went  into  the 
shop  into  which  May  had  been  carried. 
There  he  found  that  the  person  who  had 
lifted  her  up,  and  was  takiug  care  of  her, 
was  their  lodger,  Mr.  Godfrey.  He  had  been 
at  the  door  of  their  house,  getting  his  trunks 
carried  in,  when,  seeing  that  an  accident  had 
happened,  he  ran  to  give  what  help  he  could, 
and,  to  his  great  sorrow,  recognized  little 
May. 

"  She  has  ceased  screaming,"  he  said  to 
Harry,  "  and  I  cannot  find  that  any  bones  are 
broken,  so  I  hope  she  is  not  much  hurt.  My 
dear  boy,  you  ought  to  go  and  warn  your 
mother." 

"  I  know  I  ought,  but  I  am  stupid,  I  think  ; 
it  was  so  sudden.  Is  this  Mr.  Godfrey  ?  Oh, 
sir,  come  with  me  ;  I  don't  know  how  I  am 
to  tell  my  mother." 

"  Surely  I  will  go  with  you  ;  come  at  once, 
there  is  no  time  to  lose." 


HABEY'S  PERPLEXITY.  267 

They  ran  all  the  way  ;  the  door  was  open, 
and  Sally,  the  little  servant,  was  keeping  one 
or  two  strangers  from  going  up-stairs.  "  No 
one  shall  go  frightening  my  missus  until 
Master  Harry  comes  himself,"  cried  Sally; 
**  ah,  here  he  is.  Oh,  Master  Harry,  what 
has  happened  ?  " 

But  Harry  could  not  answer.  He  led  his 
companion  up-stairs,  and  into  the  room  where 
his  mother  was  waiting  for  them ;  she  had 
heard  a  noise  down-stairs,  but  thought  it  was 
only  the  men  carrying  in  Mr.  Godfrey's 
trunks. 

But  when  she  saw  Harry's  face,  no  words 
were  needed  to  make  her  aware  that  some 
terrible  misfortune  had  occurred.  Harry 
looked  at  her,  and  whispered,  "Mother,  Mr. 
Godfrey  will  tell  you  ;  I  can't,  " 

And  he  ran  out  of  the  room  and  down- 
stairs not  knowing  whither  he  went. 

They  were  carrying  his  father  into  the 
house  as  he  came  down  ;  the  light  from  the 
hall  lamp  fell  upon  his  face,  and  Harry  knew 
that  he  was  dead.  He  caught  the  doctor's 


268  HABBY'S  PEBPLBXITY. 

hand,  and  looked  up  into  his  face  without  a 
word. 

"  Where  can  we  lay  him  down  ?  "  asked 
the  physician,  turning  away  sadly  from  tho 
appealing  look. 

Harry  led  the  way  to  the  bedroom  on  the 
first  floor,  and  the  men  laid  their  burthen 
down  upon  the  bed,  and  stole  quietly  away. 
Dr.  Eustace  had  before  this  ascertained  that 
nothing  could  be  done,  but  now,  seeing  poor 
Harry  standing  there,  gazing  blankly  on  his 
father's  face,  he  once  more  felt  the  pulse  and 
laid  his  hand  upon  the  heart.  Then  he 
turned  to  Harry,  —  "  My  poor  fellow,  you 
see  there  is  nothing  for  me  to  do  here. 
Where  is  the  child  ?  I  may  be  of  some  use 
to  her." 

"  My  father  is  dead,  then  ?  "  said  Harry, 
in  a  low  voice. 

The  doctor  answered  gently,  "  He  is  dead  ; 
he  was  killed  on  the  spot." 

"  Are  you  quite  sure,  sir?  " 

"  Perfectly  sure ;  put  your  hand  here,  over 
his  heart,  and  you  will  doubt  no  longer." 


HABBY'S  PERPLEXITY.  269 

Harry  obeyed;  but  press  his  trembling 
hand  upon  that  once  loving  heart  as  he 
might,  there  was  no  answering  thrill  of  life, 
and  upon  the  clearly  cut  features  there  was 
now  a  solemn  calm,  which  told  even  Harry's 
inexperienced  eyes  that  life  was  gone. 

"  You  know  it  now  ?  "  said  Dr.  Eustace, 
as  the  boy  desisted  from  his  vain  efforts. 

"  I  knew  it  before,  only  I  tried  not  to  be- 
lif?ve  it." 

He  stood  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then 
said,  simply,  "  My  mother,  my  poor  mother !  " 

"Let  us  go  to  her,"  said  Dr.  Eustace, 
"  and  see  about  the  child." 

They  went  up-stairs ;  May  had  been 
brought  home,  and  was  lying  on  the  little 
sofa  :  the  room  was  full  of  strangers,  with 
sympathizing  faces,  watching  Mrs.  Rivers  as 
she  stood  beside  the  child,  silent  and  appar- 
ently calm.  Dr.  Eustace  and  Mr.  Godfrey 
sent  them  all  away,  and  when  the  room  was 
cleared  Mr.  Godfrey  said,  in  a  low  voice, 

"  I  have  told  her  ;  but  I  do  not  know  that 
bhe  understood  me." 


270  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

Mary  Rivers  looked  round,  showing  a 
white,  scared  face,  and  said, 

"  I  understood  you,  Mr.  Godfrey.  You 
told  me  that  Frank  is  dead."' 

"  I  don't  like  this,"  whispered  Dr.  Eustace  ; 
"  she  is  too  calm  and  quiet  —  stunned,  poor 
thing.  But  the  child  looks  bad,  I  must  see 
to  her." 

As  he  spoke  he  began  with  skilful  touch 
to  remove  May's  frock,  and  Mrs.  Rivers  came 
and  helped  him.  He  was  busied  about  the 
child,  for  some  time,  and  she  still  helped 
without  a  word.  Presently  he  stepped  back 
to  Harry  and  said  to  him, 

"  If  this  goes  on,  your  mother  will  be  ill ; 
speak  to  her,  make  her  listen  to  you: — if 
possible,  make  her  cry,  it  may  save  her 
life." 

Harry  started,  came  forward,  and  took 
his  mother's  hand  in  his.  He  led  her  out  of 
the  room,  she  following  him  passively  like  a 
person  walking  in  sleep.  Harry  looked  into 
her  wide  open,  quiet  eyes,  and  was  more 
frightened  than  if  she  had  shown  the  most 


HA  KEY'S   PERPLEXITY.  271 

violent  grief;  but  terror  gave  him  wisdom  to 
know  what  was  the  best  thing  to  do  :  he  led 
her  down-stairs  and  into  the  room  where  his 
father  lay.  When  she  saw  her  dear  Frank 
lying  there  pale  and  still,  with  the  brown 
curly  hair,  that  she  was  so  proud  of,  all  wet 
and  mud-stained,  her  unnatural  composure 
gave  way ;  she  sank  upon  her  knees  beside 
the  bed,  crying  out  piteously, 

44  Oh,  my  Frank  !  my  darling,  my  darling  I" 

And  then  tears  came.  Harry  wept  too, 
poor  fellow,  and  knelt  beside  her ;  the  two 
poor  things  clung  to  each  other  and  sobbed. 
It  was  a  long  time  before  Mrs.  Rivers  was 
again  calm"  enough  to  speak,  and  then  Dr. 
Eustace  explained  to  her  how  it  happened ; 
he  told  her  that  her  husband  had  been  killed 
instantaneously,  suffering  no  pain. 

44 1  can  thank  God  for  that,"  she  said,  "  be- 
cause no  death  could  be  sudden  to  him ;  he 
was  always  ready,  trusting  in  his  Saviour." 

Harry  thought  of  his  father's  words  that 
evening —  only  that  evening  —  not  two  hours 
ago,  and  it  seemed  so  long  ago!  "Do  you 


272  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

wonder  that  I  am  content  to  do  the  day's 
work,  not  looking  beyond  it  ?  that  '  one  step 
is  enough  '  for  me  ?  " 

Now  his  day's  work  was  done ;  the  "  one 
step  "  he  did  not  ask  to  see  had  been  from 
this  scene  of  trial  and  toil  into  the  brightness 
of  his  Father's  home  and  the  presence  of  the 
Elder  Brother,  whose  footsteps  he  had  so 
humbly  and  faithfully  endeavored  to  follow. 
He  heard  his  mother  murmur,  "  Gone  home 
—  gone  home  first,  Frank."  Not  one  repin- 
ing word  passed  her  lips  ;  she  knew  it  was  no 
chance,  no  accident,  but  as  surely  the  loving 
call  of  Christ  as  if  she  had  heard  his  voice 
saying,  "  It  is  I ;  be  not  afraid." 

Presently  Harry  heard  her  ask,  "  Is  my 
little  girl  much  hurt,  Dr.  Eustace  ?  " 

"  Oh,  there  are  no  bones  broken,"  he  an- 
swered, but  not  very  cheerfully.  "  I'm  afraid 
she  has  some  suffering  before  her  ;  however, 
I  shall  be  a  better  judge  to-morrow.  Don't 
send  for  any  other  doctor,  Mrs.  Rivers ;  I  will 
attend  your  little  girl  very  carefully.  I  am 
more  shocked  than  I  can  say  to  have  been 


HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  273 

the  cause  of  so  much  sorrow,  though,  believe 
me,  I  was  not  driving  carelessly." 

Then  he  said  "  Good-bye,"  and  went 
away.  Mr.  Godfrey,  who  would  not  leave 
them  alone  in  their  sorrow,  kept  watch  with 
them  all  that  dreary  night,  while  they  sat  by 
poor  little  May's  uneasy  pillow,  and  mourned 
sore  for  the  husband  and  father  who  had 
been  so  suddenly  taken  from  them.  He 
afterwards  said  that  he  learnt  what  r«»sl  sub- 
mission to  God's  will  meant  fro»  Mary 
Rivers  diiring  that  long  night-watch. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  HAED  STRUGGLE. 

jHEN  Mary  Rivers  had  sufficiently 
recovered  from  the  terrible  shock 
of  her  husband's  death  to  be  able 
to  turn  her  thoughts  to  the  future,  she  held 
a  consultation  with  her  two  friends,  Mr. 
Godfrey,  whom  she  never  could  look  upon 
as  a  stranger  since  that  awful  night  when 
he  had  been  like  a  brother  to  her,  and  Mr. 
Eastwood,  who  was  very  anxious  to  know 
what  effect  his  father's  death  would  have 
upon  Harry's  prospects. 

She  told  them  that  she  was  most  desirous 
that  Harry  should  continue  his  studies,  as 
had  been  intended.  She  hoped  that  by  en- 

274 


HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  275 

gaging  one  or  two  girls  to  assist  in  her  work 
she  could  so  increase  her  dressmaking  busi- 
ness, that  with  the  help  of  her  lodgers'  pay- 
ments she  could  pay  the  rent  of  her  house 
and  support  herself  and  May,  and  help  tc 
support  Harry ;  but  she  thought  that  per- 
haps Mr.  Eastwood  could  put  his  pupil  in 
the  way  of  partly  supporting  himself. 

"  That  I  surely  can,  Mrs.  Rivers,"  said 
Paul  Eastwood,  much  relieved  to  find  that 
he  was  not  to  lose  his  pupil.  "  Harry  draws 
so  well  now  that  I  am  sure  he  can  undertake 
to  illustrate  cheap  works  and  periodicals. 
He  won't  earn  much,  for  I  cannot  allow  him 
to  give  much  time  to  it ;  it  would  be  a  thou- 
sand pities  to  interrupt  his  regular  studies 
just  now." 

"  I  don't  want  him  to  do  much,"  said  Mrs. 
Rivers,  "  nor  should  I  allow  him  to  be  de- 
layed even  a  little  in  his  studies  if  I  could 
help  it.  But  my  health  is  so  uncertain,  and 
my  poor  little  May  requires  so  much  care, 
that  I  am  afraid  Harry  must  do  something 
for  himself." 


276  HABEY'S  PEEPLEXITT. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Harry,  slowly,  "  I  had 
better  try  to  get  work  that  would  support 
me  altogether." 

"  Now,  Mrs.  Rivers,"  cried  the  artist, 
eagerly,  "  don't  allow  that.  I  assure  you  it 
would  be  an  actual  sin.  If  Harry  works  on 
steadily  for  three  or  four  years  more,  with  a 
year  in  Rome,  which  I  mean  to  manage  for 
him,  he  will  be  an  independent  man,  able  to 
repay  a  hundredfold  all  that  you  have  done 
for  him.  And  it  would  be  cruel  —  wicked, 
to  ask  him  to  throw  away  such  talents  as 
his." 

"Still,"  began  Mr.  Godfrey,  "Harry  must 
be  guided  by  his  own  sense  of  right." 

"  No,  no  !  "  broke  in  Mary  Rivers  hastily. 
"  Harry  must  obey  me  ;  he  always  has  hith- 
erto, and  I  am  sure  he  will  now.  It  was  his 
father's  wish  that  he  should  continue  his 
studies  and  be  an  artist,  and  I  shall  not 
allow  any  change  to  be  made." 

So  the  matter  was  arranged.  Harry 
worked,  if  possible,  harder  than  ever,  in 
order  to  earn  money  without  interrupting 


HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  277 

his  studies;  but  his  earnings  were  very 
small.  Mrs.  Rivers  toiled  unceasingly,  but 
it  became  a  hand-to-hand  struggle  with  pov- 
erty. May  took  up  so  much  of  her  tune, 
too  ;  the  poor  child  had  received  some  ter- 
rible injury  to  her  spine,  and  Dr.  Eustace 
gave  them  but  little  hope  that  she  -would 
ever  be  better.  She  had  never  been  able  to 
stand  or  walk  since  that  dreadful  night :  her 
pet  name,  "  Dame  Trot,"  was  never  heard 
now,  for  her  little  pattering  feet  that  had 
earned  it  were  quiet  enough. 

The  months  went  by ;  all  Mary's  little 
savings  were  spent  by  degrees  to  eke  out 
her  earnings.  May  was  no  better,  and  her 
mother's  gentle  face  grew  sadly  pinched  and 
careworn.  Mr.  Godfrey  (who  still  occupied 
her  first  floor,  and  was  very  kind  to  them 
all)  once  or  twice  tried  to  speak  to  Harry 
on  the  subject  of  his  mother's  anxiety,  but 
he  found  to  his  sorrow  that  the  lad,  once  so 
frank  and  gentle,  listened  to  him  in  dogged 
silence,  and  would  not  answer.  He  was  ex- 
ceedingly grieved  at  this  ;  for  he  had  become 


278  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

much  attached  to  Harry,  and  did  not  under- 
stand this  change  in  his  manner.  During 
the  first  year  after  his  father's  death  the 
boy  was  very  much  with  his  new  friend, 
and  Mr.  Godfrey  had  learned  to  love  him. 

Once,  when  Frank  Rivers  had  been  nearly 
two  years  dead,  Mr.  Godfrey  happened  to 
meet  Mr.  Eastwood,  and  his  mind  being  full 
of  Harry's  changed  looks,  he  said  to  him, 
"  How  is  Harry  getting  on  now,  Eastwood  ? 
Is  he  doing  well  ?  " 

Paul  Eastwood  looked  vexed. 

"  He  would  do  better,"  said  he,  "  if  you 
would  leave  off  putting  foolish  ideas  into 
his  head.  Now,  just  ask  yourself  the  plain 
question  —  What  can  he  do  towards  sup- 
porting his  mother  and  sister  ?  Suppose  he 
left  me  this  very  day,  and  went  in  search 
of  better  paid  work,  do  you  suppose  he 
would  get  it  ?  You  know  better.  There 
are  hundreds  of  young  men  trying  to  get 
work  and  failing.  And  by  simply  perse- 
vering for  a  few  years  longer,  Harry  will 
be  able  to  do  what  he  likes." 


,  -  SARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  279 

'*  What  makes  you  think  that  I  put  fool- 
ish ideas  into  his  head  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  God- 
frey, quietly. 

"  Oh,  I  know  you  have  spoken  to  him 
once  or  twice,  and  I  have  had  hard  work  to 
quiet  him  again.  You  are 'really  doing  him 
an  injury,  you  know.  The  first  year  after 
his  father's  death  he  got  on  splendidly,  but 
latterly  —  I  can't  account  for  it  except  by 
supposing  that  your  words  are  weighing  on 
his  mind  —  he  does  not  get  on  at  all,  though 
he  seems  to  work  harder  than  ever.  Several 
of  his  illustrations  have  been  refused,  and 
his  work  in  the  studio  is  not  what  it  used 
to  be." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  this,"  replied 
Mr.  Godfrey,  "but  I  assure  you  it  would 
not  be  right  not  to  call  his  attention  to  his 
mother's  state;  she  will  certainly  break 
down  under  her  struggle.  I  am  a  poor 
man,  as  you  know,  and  with  all  the  will, 
I  have  not  the  power  to  help  her.  The 
poor  little  girl,  too,  she  suffers  terribly, 
and  lies  there  for  hours  alone;  a  patient, 


280  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

good  little  May  she  is ;  you  never  hear  a 
complaint  from  her." 

"But  what  can  Harry  do?"  said  Mr. 
Eastwood.  "  I  would  help  if  I  could,  but 
have  never  saved ;  it  all  goes  as  it  comes, 
and  Owen's  education  is  costing  me  so 
much.  But  if  you  are  wanting  Harry  to 
give  up  his  profession,  I  suppose  you  know 
of  some  opening  that  will  make  him  inde- 
pendent sooner  than  it  would?" 

"No,  I  do  not,"  answered  the  minister. 
"  But  I  should  think  work  might  be  found. 
He  is  seventeen,  well  educated,  and  —  " 

"  Well,  now,  Godfrey,  I  have  only  one 
word  to  say.  You  are  not  doing  him  any 
good  by  unsettling  his  mind  and  making 
him  unhappy.  You  keep  him  back  in  his 
profession,  and  yet  you  are  obliged  to  con- 
fess that  you  don't  know  what  else  he 
could  do." 

"  No  ;  but  in  his  place  I  should  try  to 
find  out.  However,  you  need  not  be  afraid 
that  I  shall  interfere,  for  Harry  is  not  so 
frank  with  me  as  he  used  to  be ;  indeed, 
latterly  I  hardly  see  him." 


HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  281 

"So  much  the  better,"  said  Paul  East- 
wood, laughing.  "  You  just  leave  him  to 
me,  and  you'll  see  him  a  great  man  one  of 
these  days ! " 

And  the  artist  hurried  away,  not  caring 
to  hear  what  his  friend  might  say  in  reply 
to  this  remark. 

Poor  Harry!  he  was  indeed  so  unhappy 
at  this  time  that  it  was  no  wonder  that  his 
beloved  studies  did  not  flourish.  His  con- 
science was  ill  at  ease,  and,  try  as  he  might, 
he  could  not  succeed  in  stifling  the  pain.  It 
did  not  need  that  Mr.  Godfrey  should  point 
out  to  him  his  duty ;  he  knew  it  too  well  for 
his  own  comfort.  Nay,  he  knew  something 
that  Mr.  Godfrey  did  not  know,  which  made 
his  path  even  plainer  before  him.  For  when 
he  recalled,  as  he  did  frequently,  in  spite  of 
himself,  that  interview  with  his  grandfather, 
and  the  old  man's  voluntary  promise  of  as- 
sistance should  he  ever  remind  him  of  the 
service  then  rendered  him,  Harry  could  not 
blind  himself  to  the  fact  that  until  he  had 
asked  him  for  employment  and  been  refused, 


282  ELAJSRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

he  had  not  the  smallest  excuse  for  taking 
comfort  in  Mr.  Eastwood's  assertions  that  to 
procure  employment  that  would  pay  was  im- 
possible. 

Yet,  to  give  up  all  his  bright  hopes!  all 
his  proud  future  of  fame  and  wealth  I  to  tie 
himself  to  the  dull  plodding  work  of  a  count- 
ing-house ;  to  offend,  perhaps,  his  kind  friend 
and  teacher;  never  to  see  Rome  and  the 
treasures  of  art  of  which  he  had  so  long 
dreamed.  No,  he  could  not  do  it ;  it  was  im- 
possible that  such  a  sacrifice  could  be  re- 
quired of  him.  As  Mr.  Eastwood  said,  "  In 
a  few  years  you  will  be  able  to  support  half- 
a-dozen  mothers  and  sisters."  In  a  few 
years  !  Yes,  but  as  often  as  Harry  arrived 
at  this  point  in  the  silent  argument  between 
himself  and  that  "  still  small  voice "  that 
would  not  hush,  the  terrible  idea  that  in  a 
few  years  he  might  have  neither  mother  nor 
sister  to  support  would  present  itself.  He 
could  not  but  see  that  May  was  fading  day 
by  day,  needing  fresh  air,  better  food,  and 
better  nursing  than  could  be  procured  for 


HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  283 

her.  His  mother,  too,  looked  over-worked 
and  heart-broken. 

These  thoughts  kept  gnawing  at  his 
heart ;  what  wonder  that  his  hand  was  no 
longer  steady,  nor  his  eye  true  ? 

The  remembrance  of  his  father,  too,  that 
used  to  spur  him  on  to  greater  diligence,  was 
now  bitter  to  him.  What  would  that  wise 
and  loving  father  say  to  him,  could  they 
meet  now  ?  Harry  knew  well  enough  what 
he  would  say  ;  the  memory  of  that  last  con- 
versation haunted  him  perpetually.  Was  he 
not  called  now,  and  that  in  no  uncertain 
voice,  to  a  duty  that  was  distasteful  to  him  ; 
and  had  not  his  father  been  right  in  assert- 
ing that  the  motives  he  was  guided  by  were 
not  the  ones  to  lead  him  to  follow  duty  when 
it  went  against  inclination  ?  The  example  of 
Christ,  too,  of  which  his  father  had  spoken, 
was  not  forgotten.  For  though  Harry  had 
not  altogether  yielded  his  heart  to  the  loving 
control  of  his  Saviour,  yet  his  conscience  was 
active,  and  the  Holy  Spirit  was  pleading 
with  him  day  by  day,  leading  him  towards  a 


284  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

higher  life  of  full  consecration  and  simple 
faith  in  Christ.  There  were  times  when 
these  thoughts  became  so  masterful  that 
Harry  flung  down  brush  and  palette,  and 
hurried  out  of  Mr.  Eastwood's  studio,  half 
determined  to  see  his  grandfather  at  once, 
and  appeal  to  him  to  keep  his  promise  ;  but 
then  the  remembrance  of  all  he  must  give 
up  came  back,  and  he  could  not  do  it. 

But  Harry  Rivers  was  the  "son  of  many 
prayers,"  like  St.  Augustine  of  old,  and  he 
was  not  deserted,  or  allowed  to  silence  his 
conscience  and  be  at  peace.  As  time  went 
on  he  became  more  and  more  unhappy,  and 
grew  so  thin  and  pale,  that  his  mother  was 
quite  alarmed  for  his  health. 

One  hot  day  in  July,  when  May  had  passed 
a  restless  night,  and,  wearied  out,  was  sleep- 
ing on  her  little  couch  in  the  sitting-room, 
Harry  came  in,  and  stood  looking  at  her  with 
such  a  troubled  face  that  his  mother  left  her 
work  to  come  and  lay  her  hand  upon  his  arm, 
and  whisper  gently, 

"  Are  you  ill,  dear  Harry  ?  I  cannot  bear 
to  see  you  like  this." 


HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  285 

Harry  had  become  so  silent  and  moody,  so 
unlike  her  bright,  pleasant  boy,  that  she 
asked  the  question  timidly.  Not  that  he  had 
ever  been  rough  to  her,  but  that  she  felt  that 
she  did  not  understand  him. 

"  I  am  not  ill,  mother." 

"Then  what  is  it,  Harry?  My  darling, 
there  is  something  wrong  with  you  —  I  have 
seen  it  this  long  time.  Will  you  not  tell  me 
what  it  is  ?  You  used  to  share  every  feeling 
with  me ;  now  you  shut  me  out ;  and  yet  I 
see  that  you  are  unhappy." 

"  Yes,  unhappy,  miserable !  "  said  Harry., 
with  a  smothered  sob.  "  And  I  deserve  ta 
be  so.  I  am  a  selfish,  cowardly  wretch,  and 
I  know  it !  How  can  I  be  happy  ?  " 

"My  dear  boy,  you  frighten  me.  What 
do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Do  not  ask  me  just  now,  mamma.  There 
is  a  great  battle  going  on  in  my  heart,  and 
you  cannot  help  me  in  it.  It  must  soon 
come  to  an  end ;  I  cannot  bear  it  much 
longer." 

Mary  looked  at  his  gloomy  face ;  she   did 


286  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

not  choose  to  force  him  to  confide  in  her, 
and  yet  it  grieved  her  to  the  heart  that  he 
should  suffer,  and  she  not  be  able  to  help 
him. 

"A  battle,"  she  said,  "  and  I  can  do  noth- 
ing !  Yes,  Harry,  there  is  one  thing  I  can 
do,  and  will ;  I  shall  pray  that  you  may  be 
guided  right." 

"  Do,  mother  !  I  need  guidance ;  no,  I  will 
not  say  what  is  not  true.  Mother,  I  know 
what  I  ought  to  do  well  enough,  but  I  have 
no  heart  to  do  it." 

"  Then  I  will  pray  that  you  may  have 
strength  given  you.  Oh,  Harry  !  "  she  ex- 
claimed, tears  coming  into  her  eyes,  "  you 
must  not  turn  quite  away  from  me,  though  I 
am  not  wise  to  advise  you,  as  your  dear 
father  was." 

44  My  father  !  Ah,  mother  !  I  have  ao 
doubt  what  he  would  say  to  me.  Don't  cry, 
my  own  dear  mammie !  I  will  tell  you  soon, 
but  it  is  better  I  should  not  tell  you  now.  I 
think  I  shall  soon  make  up  my  mind  now ; 
don't  forget  what  you  said  you  would  do  for 


HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  287 

Mary  kissed  him,  and  went  away,  She 
went  quietly  to  her  own  room,  and  shut  her- 
self in  for  awhile.  Harry  knew  how  she  was 
employed.  He  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands,  and  sat  there,  fighting  his  battle  once 
more.  It  was  a  sore  struggle  ;  much  sorer 
than  ordinary  people  can  understand. 

For  we  must  remember  that  those  to  whom 
God  has  given  even  a  small  measure  of  the 
wondrous  gift  that  we  call  genius,  not  only 
feel  things  with  more  than  ordinary  acute- 
ness,  but  to  them  the  power  of  following  the 
bent  of  their  peculiar  talent  is  almost 
necessary,  quite  necessary,  indeed,  to  their 
happiness.  So,  in  judging  Harry  Rivers  for 
his  hesitation,  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  that 
the  sacrifice  required  of  him  was  no  ordinary 
one.  It  was  not  merely  changing  one  mode 
of  life  which  he  liked  for  another  which  he 
might  not  like  so  well ;  it  was  much  more 
like  giving  up  his  life  altogether.  If  he 
were  not  an  artist,  it  seemed  to  him  little 
matter,  as  far  as  he  was  concerned,  what  he 
was  or  what  work  he  had  to  do. 


288  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

There  he  sat,  outwardly  so  quiet  that  he 
did  not  disturb  May's  light  slumbers,  but  in 
his  heart  raged  a  battle  on  which  God's 
angels  may  have  looked  with  solemn  interest. 
For  it  was  a  turning-point  in  his  life.  Two 
paths  lie  before  him  ;  which  will  he  follow  ? 
One,  dark  and  difficult,  leads  by  the  cross  to 
the  crown ;  the  other,  bright  and  easy,  leads 
—  whither? 

May  moved  uneasily  in  her  sleep,  and 
Harry  went  and  stood  beside  her ;  she  was 
smiling,  he  saw,  and  a  pink  flush  came  into 
her  cheeks,  so  that  she  looked  like  his  little 
Mayblossom  again.  But  in  a  moment  more 
she  woke  with  a  start,  looked  hastily  round, 
and  believing  herself  alone  —  for  he  was  a 
little  behind  the  couch  —  put  her  hands 
over  her  eyes,  and  burst  into  a  little  weary, 
woeful  cry,  that  went  to  his  heart. 

"  May  I  my  little  May  I  you  must  not  do 
this.  What  is  it,  darling  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Harry  I  are  you  there  ?  I  was  only 
dreaming." 

"  And  what  did  my  poor  little  May  dream 


HABRY'S  PEEPLEXITY.  289 

about,  that  made  her  smile  first  and  then 
cry?"  asked  Harry,  fondly,  drawing  her 
hands  away  from  her  face. 

"  Never  mind,  dear  ;  it's  only  nonsense," 
she  replied,  trying  to  smile,  though  the 
great  tears  were  running  down  her  cheeks. 
"  Can  you  stay  with  me,  and  make  some 
pictures,  Harry  ?  I  do  like  that  so  much. 
Make  me  some  new  ones,  and  tell  me  a 
story  about  them,  and  then  when  I  am 
alone  they  will  be  as  good  as  a  new  book 
to  me." 

"But  first  tell  me  why  you  cried.  I 
must  know  that,  May." 

May  blushed  a  little. 

"  It  was  very  silly  of  me,"  she  said.  **  It 
was  only  because  I  found  it  was  only  a 
dream.  But  I  would  rather  not  talk  about 
it,  indeed.  Mr.  Godfrey  says  we  must  try 
to  be  content,  and  I  know  talking  about  it 
will  only  make  me  long  the  more  for  it." 

"Heaven  knows,  you  don't  grumble,  May. 
I  often  wonder  how  you  bear  so  much  with- 
out a  word  of  complaint." 


290  HAEBY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

"  You  dou't  see  my  heart.  I  do  grumble 
sometimes,  though  I  try  not.  But,  oh, 
Harry  I  when  Mr.  Godfrey  talks  to  me  about 
heaven,  and  all  that  our  dear  Lord  bore  that 
we  might  go  there,  it  seems  such  a  shame  to 
think  so  much  of  a  little  pain,  or  even  this 
want  of  breath,  which  is  worse  than  any 
pain,  I  think." 

"But,  May,  tell  me  all  about  the  dream 
that  made  you  cry." 

"  Ah,  that  dream  I  it  comes  so  often.  I 
dreamt  that  I  was  lying  here,  looking  up  at 
the  ceiling,  which  seemed  heavy,  as  if  it 
somehow  kept  me  from  breathing.  And 
the  room  was  very  hot  —  it  is,  you  know, 
when  the  sun  is  on  the  windows.  But 
while  I  looked,  the  ceiling  began  to  go  up 
—  and  up — and  it  went  higher  and  higher, 
till  it  melted  all  away  into  the  clear  blue 
sky.  Oh,  so  clear  and  so  blue,  and  so  high 
up  away  from  me ;  and  one  pretty  little 
white  cloud  sailing  about  over  my  head. 
Then  I  heard  a  murmur,  like  the  sound  in 
the  great  shell  Owen  Eastwood  gave  me, 


HAEEY'S  PEEPLEXITY.       „     291 

oiily  ever  so  much  louder  ;  and  the  air  was 
cool  and  blew  upon  my  face  and  stirred  my 
hair  softly ;  and  I  breathed  without  pain  01 
trouble;  and  was  able  to  sit  up  and  look 
round  ;  then  I  saw  that  I  lay  on  the  sea- 
shore, on  my  bed,  you  know,  but  it  stood 
on  the  sand  beside  the  sea.  Oh,  so  lovely  ! 
just  for  one  moment.  But  I  cannot  de- 
scribe it,  for  I  always  awake  then." 

Her  voice,  which  had  been  so  eager  while 
telling  of  her  beautiful  dream,  broke  down 
suddenly,  and  May  cried  again  —  she  could 
not  help  it.  Harry  kissed  her,  but  said 
nothing. 

"  And  oh,  Harry !  the  worst  of  it  is,  I 
cannot  get  this  dream  out  of  my  head.  I  am 
always  thinking  of  it,  and  longing  for  it  to 
turn  into  real  earnest.  I  long  to  breathe 
that  cool  fresh  breeze  and  see  that  blue  sky 
and  beautiful  sea,  and  I  get  no  rest  because 
of  this  foolish  longing." 

"  Do  you  think  it  would  make  you  well, 
May?" 

"  No.     I  shall  never  be  well ;   I  know  Dr. 


292  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

Eustace  thinks  so.  But  the  breeze !  oh,  it 
would  be  so  cool  and  pleasant." 

"  Have  you  told  mamma  of  this  dream, 
darling  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  she  cried  ;  and  so  I  have  never 
spoken  of  it  again.  Don't  say  anything  to 
her  of  it,  Harry.  I  know  it  is  quite  impossi- 
ble, and,  indeed,  I  know  it  is  wrong  to  think 
of  it." 

"  Not  wrong,  my  poor  little  May  —  very 
natural." 

"But  that  doesn't  make  it  right,  you 
know." 

"  Well,  but  I  mean  that  I  don't  see  how 
you  can  help  it,  dear." 

"  Oh  yes  I  can,  sometimes ;  and  I  ought 
always." 

"How,  May?  —  tell  me." 

"  Oh,  you  know,  Harry,  better  than  I  do," 
the  child  answered,  with  a  bright  smile.  .**  I 
think  of  Him  —  the  Lord  Jesus.  All  he  bore 
for  us ;  and  now  he  sends  me  this  to  bear  for 
him.  When  I  remember  this  it  seems  easy 
to  be  patient,  but  then  I  am  foolish  and  for- 


HABBY'S  PEBPLEXITY.  293 

get  sometimes.  But  Mr.  Godfrey  says  that 
if  I  pray  very  often  for  help,  he  will  certainty 
make  me  able  to  remember  always.'' 

Back  into  Harry's  mind  flashed  the  re- 
membrance of  his  father's  earnest  face  on 
that  last  evening,  lighted  as  it  had  been  with 
loving  faith  ;  May's  pale  little  face  bore  the 
same  look  now.  He  sat  silent,  thinking  of 
that  evening's  talk  —  and  as  he  thought, 
light  dawned.  This  was  the  work  given ; 
not  pleasant,  not  what  he  would  have  chosen 
for  himself,  but  a  plain  call  of  duty,  to  which 
he  could  no  longer  shut  his  ears.  Now, 
then,  the  question  was,  what  was  his  ruling 
motive  ?  Was  it  love  for  Him  who  sent  the 
trial,  or  simply  love  of  self  ?  For  a  moment 
he  felt  terribly  weak  and  helpless,  but  in  this 
struggle  he  lifted  up  his  heart  for  help. 
"  Thou  who  didst  die  for  me,  help  me  to 
live  to  thee.  Help  me  now,  for  I  am  weak 
and  selfish.  Thou  hast  showed  me  thy  will ! 
help  me  now  to  do  it." 

"  What  are  you  saying,  Harry  ?  I  don't 
quite  hear  you." 


294  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  / 

"  I  did  not  speak,  dear  ;  I  was  thinking  of 
something,"  Harry  answered,  taking  up  her 
little  Bible  as  he  spoke. 

"  Now  I  will  read  you  a  chapter,  May  ;  for 
I  must  go  out." 

"  Must  you  ? "  cried  May,  rather  disap- 
pointed. "I  thought  perhaps  you  had  a 
holiday." 

"  No.  I  have  some  work  to  do,  and  I  must 
do  it  at  once,"  he  answered,  gravely. 

He  opened  the  Bible  at  the  place  where 
her  marker  lay,  and  read.  His  mind  was 
full,  and  the  words  had  no  sense  in  them  for 
him  at  first,  But  these  verses  roused  him  : 

"If  thy  right  hand  offend  thee,  cut  it  off, 
and  cast  it  from  thee. 

"  If  thy  right  eye  offend  thee,  pluck  it  out, 
and  cast  it  from  thee." 

"  God  helping  me,  I  will,"  said  Harry, 
half  aloud.  May  started  and  asked, 

"  What  do  you  say  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  dear,     Good-bye  for  a   while." 

He  went  over  to  his  old  cupboard,  and 
after  a  short  search  found  his  grandfather's 


'S  PERPLEXITY.  295 


card,  gather  yellow  and  dirty,  but  safe 
enough.  Then  he  went  in  search  of  his 
mother. 

"  Mamma,  do  •)  ou  know  how  May  is  long- 
ing to  be  by  the  seaside  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  what  can  we  do  ?  I  should 
lose  all  my  employers  if  I  left  London  ;  and 
how  could  I  send  her  alone  —  even  if  I  could 
afford  it,  which  I  cannot  ?  I  can  barely  pay 
my  way." 

"  But  how  much  or  rather  how  little, 
could  you  and  she  li  v  )  upon  somewhere  by 
the  seaside  ?  " 

"  Dear  boy,  what  is  the  use  of  talking  of 
that  ?  " 

"  It  does  no  harm,  .oac  ther  ;  please  tell  me. 
How  much  must  I  earn  to  give  May  her 
wish?" 

Mrs.  Rivers  sighed,  foj-  she  was  well  aware 
that  Harry's  earnings  as  an  artist  would 
come  too  late  for  May. 

"Eighty  pounds  a  yetffj  or  even  a  little 
less.  But  indeed,  dear,  I  iviight  as  well  say 
five  hundred,  the  one  is  as  ^xissible  as  the 
other." 


296  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY 

Harry  lingered  yet  one  moment  to  ask  in 
a  low  voice,  "  Would  she  get  well  if  she  had 
her  wish,  do  you  think  ?  " 

"No,  dear  Harry,  she  would  no  doubt 
suffer  less ;  but  we  shall  never  see  her  well 
again.  My  pretty  May,"  she  went  on  sadly  ; 
"it  would  be  selfish  to  be  sorry  that  her 
sufferings  will  not  be  for  long." 

"  Does  Dr.  Eustace  say  that  ?  " 

"Yes." 

Harry  stood  quite  still  for  a  moment,  and 
then  went  quickly  away  ;  his  mother  heard 
the  street-door  shut  in  a  moment  more. 

The  battle  was  over ;  the  victory  won. 
Harry  was  going  direct  to  his  grandfather's 
place  of  business,  and  had  determined,  if 
that  hope  failed  him,  he  would  go  to  the 
manager  of  the  Great  Western  station,  and 
try  if,  for  his  father's  sake,  they  would  em- 
ploy him. 

It  was  only  two  o'clock ;  there  was  plenty 
of  time  before  him.  He  strode  along  with  a 
color  in  his  cheek  and  a  light  in  his  eye 
which  had  long  been  absent ;  it  was  some- 
thing gained  to  have  made  up  his  mind. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
HAEEY'S  VIOTOEY. 

fT  was  not  the  first  time  that  Harry 
Rivers  had  walked  to  his  grandfather's 
business  house  in  the  city,  for  during 
the  unhappy  times  I  have  been  speaking  of 
he  had  gone  there  more  than  once,  and 
had  even  looked  into  the  long  narrow  room, 
fitted  up  with  many  desks  and  high  stools, 
where  the  clerks  worked  for  many  hours 
each  day.  On  former  occasions  he  had 
turned  away  and  gone  back  to  his  painting ; 
but  this  time  he  went  resolutely  into  the 
outer  room,  and  said  to  a  porter  whom  he 
met  there,  "  Is  Mr.  Marshall  here  to-day?  " 
"  Yes,  he  is  here ;  but  he  is  very  busy  ?  " 
"  I  want  to  see  him,"  said  Harry. 


298  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

"  Have  you  an  appointment  with  him  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly ;  but  if  you  will  take  him 
this  card,  and  say  that  the  person  to  whom 
he  gave  it  has  called,  I  think  he  will  see 
me." 

The  man  took  the  soiled  and  yellow  card 
and  glanced  at  it ;  then  after  a  moment's 
hesitation,  he  went  into  the  comtMg-house, 
and  showed  it  to  Mr.  Frere,  the  chief  clerk. 

"  There  is  a  young  gentleman  in  the  outer 
office,  sir,  wanting  to  see  Mr.  Marshall ;  he 
desired  me  to  give  him  that  card,  and  say 
that  the  person  he  had  given  it  to  was  here. 
What  had  I  better  do  ?  " 

"  Show  me  the  card.  Mr.  Marshall's  own 
card,  I  see.  Well,  Jennings,  I  will  see  him  ; 
it  won't  do  to  disturb  Mr.  Marshall  if  it  can 
be  helped." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Jennings,  in  a  tone 
of  relief. 

Harry  could  hear  all  this  as  he  stood  in 
the  outer  office,  and  he  smiled  to  himself  as 
he  thought,  "  What  order  the  old  gentleman 
has  them  in;  they  are  all  afraid  of  him." 


HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  299 

Many  people  in  his  place  would  have  been 
discouraged,  but  I  think  Harry  had  inherited 
a  little  of  his  grandfather's  sturdy  spirit,  for 
he  only  felt  more  anxious  to  see  him,  and 
quite  determined  not  to  tell  his  business  to 
any  one  else.  Mr.  Frere  came  out  into  the 
office,  and  said,  civilly, 

"  Have  you  any  business  with  Mr.  Mar- 
shall ?  for  this  is  his  time  for  writing  his  let- 
ters, and  his  orders  are  that,  except  when 
accessary,  he  is  not  to  be  disturbed." 

"  I  have  business  with  him,"  replied  Har- 
ry. "He  gave  me  that  card  some  time  ago, 
and  promised  to  see  me  whenever  I  called." 

"What  name  shall  I  say?  "  inquired  Mr. 
Frere. 

"  My  name  is  of  no  consequence  ;  I  mean 
I  would  prefer  not  to  give  it." 

"  Could  you  not  leave  a  message  with  me, 
or  call  again  later  ?  " 

"  No ;  I  cannot  wait.  I  shall  not  keep  Mr. 
Marshall  long,  but  I  want  to  see  him  at 
once." 

Mr.  Frere  looked  at  the  card  and  then  at 


300  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

Harry.  "  The  truth  is,"  said  he,  "  that  Mr 
Marshall  will  be  seriously  annoyed  if  we  dis- 
turb him  without  sufficient  cause.  If  you 
will  not  give  your  name,  or  some  idea  of 
your  business  with  him,  I  cannot  allow  Jen- 
nings to  go  to  him." 

Harry  considered  for  a  moment,  then  he 
said,  "  I  do  not  wish  my  name  mentioned  to 
Mr.  Marshall  until  I  do  so  myself;  but  I 
think  you  will  send  in  my  message  when  you 
know  who  I  am.  My  name  is  Rivers." 

Mr.  Frere  glanced  quickly  at  him.  He  was 
an  old  man,  and  remembered  Frank  Rivers 
well  when  he  was  a  clerk  in  that  very  count- 
ing-house. Harry  was  very  like  his  mother 
too ;  Mr.  Frere  saw  that,  now  he  looked 
more  attentively  at  him. 

"  Jennings,  here  is  the  card ;  say  only  that 
a  young  gentleman  wishes  to  see  him  OD 
private  business." 

Mr.  Frere  went  back  to  his  desk,  and  Jen- 
nings passed  out  of  Harry's  sight  through 
the  long  narrow  room  into  the  one  beyond. 
Presently  he  came  back. 


HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  301 

"  Mr.  Marshall  will  see  you,  sir." 

Mr.  Marshall's  private  room  was  separated 
from  the  counting-house  by  a  small  ante- 
room, through  which  Harry  went  with  a 
beating  heart ;  then  a  green  baize  door 
swung  open,  and  he  was  in  the  presence  of 
his  grandfather.  The  old  man,  who  looked 
not  a  day  older  than  when  they  last  met,  was 
sitting  before  a  large  writing  table,  and  a 
pile  of  letters  lay  before  him.  He  looked 
sharply  at  Harry,  pointing  to  the  card, 
which  lay  on  the  table. 

"  When  did  I  give  you  that  ?  Some  time 
ago,  I  suspect.  I've  forgotten  all  about  it, 
and  yet  I  remember  your  face,  I  think." 

"It  is  five  years  since  you  gave  me  that 
card,  Mr.  Marshall.  I  had  saved  a  pocket- 
book  of  yours  which  was  stolen  in  Regent 
Street  by  a  pickpocket,  and  you  promised  that 
if  I  ever  applied  to  you  for  employment  you 
would  inquire  about  me,  and  assist  me  if  you 
found  that  you  approved  of  me." 

"  I  thought  I  knew  your  face,"  answered 
Mr.  Marshall,  in  the  well-remembered  gruff 
voice. 


302  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

But  Harry  observed  that  he  kept  looking 
at  him  as  if  something  in  his  appearance 
were  puzzling  him. 

"  Yes,  you're  the  boy.  I  remember  it  very 
well.  You  refused  to  take  the  reward  I  off- 
ered, and  there  were  papers  of  value  in  the 
pocket-book.  Well !  what's  your  name,  and 
what  do  you  want  me  to  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  Sir,  my  father  is  dead  ;  he  was  killed  by 
an  accident  in  the  street  two  years  ago.  My 
little  sister  who  was  with  him  was  injured  in 
some  way  at  the  time  ;  she  has  never  had  the 
use  of  her  limbs  since,  and,  we  fear,  never 
will.  My  mother  has  hitherto  supported 
herself  and  my  sister,  and  partly  supported 
me,  by  dressmaking,  but  —  " 

"  And  what  do  you  mean,  a  stout  fellow 
like  you,  by  living  on  your  mother's  earn- 
ings ?  "  asked  Mr.  Marshall,  sharply. 

"  It  has  been  her  own  wish — indeed,  it  is 
without  her  knowledge  that  I  am  here  to- 
day. I  have  been  studying  under  Mr.  Paul 
Eastwood,  the  artist ;  they  say  I  have  talent, 
and  it  was  my  father's  wish  —  my  niothei 


HARBY'S  PERPLEXITY.  303 

would  bear  anything  rather  than  allow  me 
to  give  up.  But  my  sister  is  getting  worse, 
requiring  constant  care,  and  my  mother  is 
breaking*  down  under  the  burden.  I  want 
to  earn  enough  to  send  them  to  the  sea- 
side and  support  them  there ;  the  child  pines 
day  and  night  for  fresh  air.  If  you  can  put 
me  in  the  way  to  do  this,  sir,  you  will  be 
doing  a  kind  action." 

"  Young  man  I  never  do  kind  actions.  I 
make  a  rule  of  that.  What  fools  call  charity 
is  a  weakness  to  which  I  am  not  subject. 
But  I  am  a  perfectly  just  man,  so  far  as  I 
can  see ;  and  I  owe  you  something.  But 
your  earnings  cannot  possibly  support  three 
people  just  yet." 

"  My  mother  said  she  could  manage  with 
eighty  pounds  a  year,  or  even  less ;  but  there 
is  my  own  support  to  be  thought  of  too." 

"  A  hundred  and  twenty  pounds  a  year 
would  barely  do  it.  Now,  if  I  put  you  into 
my  counting-house,  which  is  the  very  utmost 
I  could  do  for  you,  my  younger  clerks  get 
only  ninety." 


304  HABBY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

"  Oh,  sir  I "  Harry  exclaimed,  eagerly,  "  try 
me  !  please  do.  I  could  work  after  office 
hours  at  something  else.  I  could  manage  on 
very  little  myself,  I  know." 

"  I  must  consider.  What  is  your  name  ? 
you  have  not  told  me  that  yet." 

Harry  colored,  but  answered  boldly, 

"  I  will  only  ask  you  to  remember  that  I 
apply  to  you  merely  as  the  gentleman  whose 
pocket-book  I  saved,  and  who  seemed  to 
think  I  had,  for  that  reason  a  claim  upon 
him.  My  name  is  Henry  Marshall  Rivers." 

The  old  man  started,  turned  away  for  a 
moment,  then  looked  him  in  the  face  and 
Baid,  in  exactly  the  same  quick  tone, 

"  My  grandson  I  presume  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Marshall." 

Then  there  was  a  short  silence,  during 
^•nich  Harry's  heart  beat  fast  with  anxiety. 
At  last  his  grandfather  looked  up  again  and 
said  very  deliberately, 

"  Henry  Marshall  Rivers,  I  told  you  just 
now  that  I  am  a  just  man,  and  I  mean  to  act 
justly  by  you.  You  are  not  to  blame  for 


HABBY'S  PERPLEXITY.  305 

your  parents'  faults,  and  the  fact  that  you 
are  my  grandson  —  which  I  don't  doubt,  for 
you  are  like  your  mother  —  certainly  makes 
your  claim  upon  me  stronger  than  if  you 
were  a  perfect  stranger.  I  shall  put  you 
into  my  office  as  junior  clerk  —  the  place 
your  father  held.  And  I  shall  pay  you  one 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a  year  from  the 
first,  but  you  will  remain  at  the  same  salary 
without  any  increase,  such  as  my  other 
clerks  get,  until  you  have  worked  out  the 
additional  payment  I  am  making  you  now. 

Moreover,  you  must  distinctly  understand 
that  you  are  to  expect  nothing  more  from 
me.  Your  mother  ceased  to  be  my  child 
when  she  ceased  to  obey  me,  and  I  never 
forgive.  I  give  you  a  week  from  this  day  to 
make  your  arrangements,  and  I  shall  pay 
you  a  month's  salary  in  advance." 

He  cpened  the  drawer  of  his  writing- 
table  *nd  took  out  the  very  brown  pocket- 
book,  Harry  thought,  which  he  had  saved 
from  the  thief.  From  this  he  took  twelve 
sovereigns  and  six  shillings,  which  he  pushed 
across  the  table  to  Harry. 


306  HABBY'S  PEBPELXITY. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Rivers,  I  hope  you  under- 
stand me.  You  are  no  more  to  me  hence- 
forth than  any  other  clerk  in  my  office." 

"  I  understand,  sir.  I  have  no  choice  but 
to  accept  your  offer,  which,  indeed,  is  more 
than  I  dared  to  expect,  and  I  am  not  un- 
grateful, though  —  " 

"  Though  what  ?  speak  out,  boy." 

"  Though  I  wish  you  had  not  spoken  as 
you  did  of  my  mother,  sir.  And  I  trust 
you  believe  me  that  she  knows  nothing  of 
my  coming  here  to-day,"  said  Harry,  firmly 
but  respectfully. 

Mr.  Marshall  looked  keenly  at  him,  and 
then  said, 

"  You  are  right,  boy.  I  beg  your  pardon ; 
I  ought  not  to  have  spoken  as  I  did  to  you. 
As  to  gratitude,  you  owe  me  none.  I  owed 
you  something,  and  have  now  paid  it.  The 
mere  money  you  will  repay  me.  Good- 
morning,  Mr.  Rivers  ;  this  day  week  at  half- 
past  nine,  I  shall  tell  Mr.  Frere  to  expect 
you." 

Harry  bowed  and  left  the  room.     When 


HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  307 

he  found  himself  again  in  the  street  his 
mind  was  so  occupied  with  the  scene  that 
had  just  passed  that  he  wandered  along,  not 
thinking  whither  he  was  going.  Long  cus- 
tom made  him  bend  his  steps  to  Mr.  East- 
wood's neighborhood.  Presently  he  roused 
himself. 

"  Where  am  I  ?  "  he  thought.  "  Oh,  well, 
I  had  better  go  on.  It  will  be  the  worst  of 
all  —  better  get  it  done." 

So  he  went  to  the  artist's  house.  As 
usual,  Paul  Eastwood  was  hard  at  work, 
and  his  loud,  cheery  voice  greeted  him. 

"  Here  you  are  at  last,  youngster.  I  was 
wondering  what  had  become  of  you.  I 
have  news  for  you,  Harry,  that  will  make 
you  open  your  eyes.  I  think  you  have  been 
for  some  time  not  quite  yourself  —  wanting 
a  change  —  and  —  " 

"  And  I'm  going  to  have  it,"  said  Harry , 
making  a  somewhat  feeble  attempt  to  laugh. 
"  Mr.  Eastwood,  don't  be  angry  with  me. 
I've  made  up  my  mind  at  last.  I  must  work 
for  my  mother  and  sister  —  I  must,  indeed/ 


508  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

"  Now,  youngster,  are  to  we  have  all  that 
bothering  old  argument  over  again  ?  When 
a  fellow  has  such  talents  as  you  have,  his 
clear  duty  is  to  make  the  most  of  them. 
We  have  talked  it  over  a  hundred  times, 
and  always  come  to  that  conclusion.  There 

—  I  won't  hear  another  word  about  it.     By- 
and-by    you'll  have    enough   to  support  a 
dozen  mothers  and  sisters,  if  you  had  'em, 
as  I've  told  you  often  enough.     Let  them 
have  patience  for  that." 

"  Patience  !  Heaven  knows  they  have  pa- 
tience enough.  It  is  not  their  doing.  Mr. 
Eastwood,  May  is  dying  —  pining  away  for 
want  of  fresh  air  —  and  I  must  give  her 
what  I  can't  help  hoping  may  save  her  life. 
You  know  what  a  struggle  it  must  be  to  me 

—  please    don't    make  it  harder  by  being 
angry  with  me.     You  have  no  idea  how  un- 
happy I  have  been." 

The  artist  flung  down  brush  and  palette, 
turning  a  half-vexed,  half-pitying  look  upon 
Harry. 

"  And  do  you  really  think,  you  foolish  fel- 


HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  309 

low,  that  you  can  possibly  hope  to  earn  what 
will  keep  your  mother  and  sister,  to  say 
Dothing  of  yourself?  " 

"  I  have  been  very  fortunate.  I  have  got 
a  place  at  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a 
year." 

"  A  hundred  and  fifty !  The  boy's 
raving." 

"  It  is  more  than  I  have  any  real  right  to, 
I  know,  but  I  can  easily  explain  it  to  you." 

Mr.  Eastwood  took  up  his  brush,  and 
made  a  poor  pretence  of  working  while 
Hariy  told  him  the  story  of  his  mother's 
marriage,  and  his  own  adventure  with  his 
grandfather. 

"  And  he'll  give  you  a  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  a  year  !  mighty  generosity  !  Why, 
Harry,  in  a  few  years  you  would  be  earning 
four  times  that  sum.  I  cannot  bear  to  think 
of  your  giving  it  up.  It  vexes  me,  boy  —  it 
really  vexes  me." 

"  It  is  more  than  a  vexation  to  me,"  said 
Harry,  sadly.  "  It  is  like  giving  up  the  sun- 
Bhine  and  going  to  live  in  a  dark  cell.  But 


310  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

I  dare  not  go  on.  Think  of  my  mother 
slaving  night  and  day,  and  May  panting  for 
every  breath  she  draws,  and  dying  before 
my  eyes  ;  how  can  I  hesitate  any  longer  ?  " 

Mr.  Eastwood  sighed. 

"It  is  an  awful  pity,"  he  said;  "but  I 
suppose  you  are  right." 

"  Oh,  thank  you  !  thank  you  a  thousand 
times  for  those  words !  Now  that  you  say 
that  I  can  be  happy  again." 

"  That's  more  than  I  can  then.  I  had 
such  news  for  you  this  morning,  too.  I  was 
frantic  for  you  to  come  in  and  hear  it.  I've 
got  a  commission  to  copy  one  or  two  pictures 

in  Rome  for  Lord ,  and  I  meant  to  have 

taken  you  with  me.  I  shall  be  there  more 
than  a  year  probably.  It  would  have  been 
the  making  of  you,  Harry." 

"  Rome  !  "  exclaimed  Harry. 

Yes,  Rome  —  the  dream  of  his  life ;  and  it 
had  been  —  nay,  still  was  —  in  his  power  to 
go  there.  It  was  a  bitter  struggle,  and  Mr. 
Eastwood,  watching  his  agitated  face,  half 
hoped  that  after  all  he  might  not  lose  hia 


HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  311 

pupil.  But  Harry  was  not  trusting  in  his 
own  strength,  and  therefore  he  was  safe. 
With  a  deep  breath,  and  in  a  very  low  voice, 
he  said. 

"  I  shall  never  forget  your  kindness,  Mr. 
Eastwood — never!  Where  will  Owen  live 
while  you  are  away  ?  " 

"  Owen  is  going  to  a  German  college  for  a 
time,  and  then  means  to  become  an  engineer. 
It's  all  he's  fit  for  —  poor  Owen !  " 

"I  shall  be  very  lonely,"  said  Harry. 
"  Well,  I  must  be  going  now.  I  shall  come 
for  my  easel  and  things  when  I  know  where 
I  shall  lodge." 

"  Come  as  often  as  you  can.  Be  off  now, 
you  young  scamp  !  you've  spoiled  my  paint- 
ing for  this  day.  Don't  look  so  pitiful,  my 
boy,"  he  added,  kindly.  "  I  know  you're 
doing  right ;  but  it  goes  to  my  heart  to  leave 
you." 

Harry  went  home  now.  He  felt  very  sad 
at  first,  but  as  he  got  nearer  to  Castle  Street 
he  dwelt  upon  May's  delight,  and  that 
thought  cheered  him  very  much.  The  day 


812  HABRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

had  passed  away  now,  and  in  his  agitation 
Harry  had  utterly  forgotten  his  dinner  ;  nor 
did  he  even  now  remember  it  until  his 
mother  greeted  him  with, 

"Why,  Harry,  you  never  told  me  you 
were  not  coming  home  to  dinner,  and  I  kept 
some  for  you  for  ever  so  long." 

**  I  declare  I  forgot  all  about  dinner,  mam- 
ma. What  have  you  done  with  it  ?  for  now 
I  think  of  it  I  am  hungry." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  have  had 
no  dinner  ?  " 

"  None  at  all." 

"  Nothing  since  breakfast,  Harry  ?  Why, 
you  must  be  actually  starving!  I  will  get 
tea  ready  at  once,  and  you  must  have  some 
cold  meat.  What  have  you  been  doing  ?  " 

Even  as  she  spoke  it  struck  Mary  Rivers 
that  her  boy  looked  more  like  himself  than 
he  had  done  of  late.  There  was  a  quiet 
brightness  in  his  face,  and  his  voice  had  lost 
the  half-sullen  sound  whicji  had  grieved  hei 
so  much.  Mr.  Godfrey,  who  was  sitting 
beside  May's  couch,  reading  to  her,  remarked 


HABBY'S  PERPLEXITY.  313 

the  change  too.  He  rose  now,  and  ther 
Harry  saw  him  for  the  first  time,  and  though 
he  blushed  a  little  he  seemed  pleased. 

"  I'm  glad  you  are  here,  Mr.  Godfrey,  for 
I  know  you  will  be  glad  to  hear  some  news 
that  I  have  for  May.  May,  my  darling,  you 
are  going  to  have  your  wish,  and  more  than 
your  wish ;  you  are  going  to  the  country  — 
to  the  sea-side.  And  you  shall  have  mamma 
sitting  beside  you  all  day  long,  with  nothing 
to  do  but  to  make  you  happy." 

May  looked  at  him  with  brightening  eyes 
and  cheeks. 

"Oh,   Harry!  is  it  real?     Shall  I  really 

go?" 

"  Oh,  Harry !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Rivers. 
"What  wild  idea  is  this?  Why  do  you 
raise  hopes  that  can't  be  realized?" 

"  Harry  would  not  do  that,"  said  May, 
with  a  look  of  perfect  trust  at  her  brother. 

"  Mother,  do  you  think  I'm  such  a  brute  ? 
No ;  every  word  of  it  is  true.  I  have  got  a 
place  as  a  clerk  in  an  office,  and  I  am  to 
have  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a  year 


314  HAEEY'S  PERPBLXITY. 

You  said  eighty  would  do,  and  now  you  can 
have  more." 

Mrs.  Rivers  looked  quite  frightened. 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  she  said.  "  It 
is  more  than  you  could  get,  Harry." 

"  Sit  down,  my  dear,  distrustful  mother ; 
do  you  think  I  have  joined  a  gang  of  house- 
breakers, that  you  tremble  so  ?  No,  indeed. 
1  just  went  to  my  grandfather,  sent  in  the 
card  he  gave  me  long  ago  —  don't  you  re- 
member, mamma,  and  how  I  wanted  to  burn 
it  ?  Well,  he  saw  me,  and  remembered  all 
about  the  pocket-book,  promised  me  a  place 
in  his  office,  and  when  he  heard  who  I  was 
said  he  would  give  me  a  hundred  and  fifty 
from  the  first.  And  there's  my  first  month 
in  advance  —  so  now  perhaps  you  will  be- 
lieve in  it." 

And  he  put  the  money  into  her  hand  ;  but 
Mrs.  Rivers  let  it  all  fall  upon  the  ground, 
while  she  threw  her  arms  round  Harry  and 
burst  into  tears. 

Oh,  my  darling !  you  have  given  up  your 
bright  prospects  in  life  for  this !  You  would 
have  been  a  great  artist,  and  now  —  " 


HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  315 

"And  now,"  interrupted  Mr.  Godfrey, 
coming  to  Harry's  assistance,  "And  now, 
dear  Mrs.  Rivers,  he  will  be  a  much  greater 
thing  than  a  great  artist,  though  I  know  he 
must  feel  the  sacrifice.  It  is  no  small  one, 
Harry — I  know  that.  But  tell  your  mother, 
are  you  not  happier  now  than  you  have  been 
for  a  long  time  ?  " 

"  Mother,  I  have  been  miserable !  "  ex- 
claimed Harry,  earnestly.  "  I  can't  talk 
about  it  —  don't  ask  me  any  questions,  but 
just  believe  me.  Mr.  Godfrey  is  right. 
Let  me  do  what  I  know  I  ought  to  do." 

"  But,  Mr.  Godfrey,"  said  little  May  from 
her  sofa,  "is  it  selfish  of  me  to  let  him  do 
this?" 

"Not  at  all,  my  dear,  for  you  have  no 
choice,"  answered  Harry.  "It  is  done,  and 
I've  told  Mr.  Eastwood.  The  matter  is 
settled." 

"And  it  won't  be  for  long,"  said  the 
child  quietly. 

"  Now,"  said  Mr.  Godfrey,  who  was  qui- 
etly employed  in  gathering  up  the  money 


316  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

Mrs.  Rivers  had  dropped,  "  I  hear  Sally 
bringing  up  my  dinner,  and  I  shall  run  awaj 
with  Harry,  Mrs.  Rivers,  and  make  him  eat 
something ;  for  you  are  all  so  excited  that 
among  you  he  will  be  starved.  How  much 
ought  there  to  be,  Harry  ?  Reckon  it,  and 
see  if  I  have  found  it  all." 

"  Oh,  I  forgot  all  about  it.  Yes,  it  is  all 
here,  thank  you,  Mr.  Godfrey.  Oh  dear! 
I'm  so  hungry !  " 

"  Come  and  dine  with  me,  then ;  we  will 
leave  your  mother  and  May  to  compose 
themselves  with  a  cup  of  tea,"  said  Mr. 
Godfrey,  laughing,  as  he  took  Harry  by  the 
shoulders  and  pushed  him  gently  out  of  the 
room  before  him. 

Before  they  slept  that  night  it  was  ar- 
ranged that  May  and  her  mother  should  go 
to  Dawlish,  in  Devonshire.  Mr.  Godfrey's 
mother  lived  there,  which  would  be  a  great 
comfort  to  Mrs.  Rivers  ;  and  Dr.  Eustace 
had  more  than  once  wished  that  May  could 
be  removed  to  a  warmer  climate.  A  very 
busy  week  ensued,  but  they  were  fortunate 
in  finding  the  owner  of  the  house  very  glad 


HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  317 

to  take  it  off  their  hands,  as  house  rent  had 
risen  a  good  deal  since  they  had  become  his 
tenants.  Mr.  Godfrey  had  to  look  out  for 
new  lodgings,  and  it  was  arranged  that  Har- 
ry should  engage  a  bedroom  in  the  same 
house,  and  live  with  his  friend ;  an  arrange- 
ment which  made  him  much  less  lonely  than 
otherwise  he  must  have  done.  He  had  the 
pleasure,  too,  of  taking  his  mother  and  sis- 
ter down  to  Dawlish,  an$  establishing  them 
in  their  pretty  lodgings,  in  a  cottage  all  cov- 
ered with  roses  and  jasmine,  and  facing  the 
sea.  It  was  enough  to  cheer  him  in  his  new 
and  uncongenial  life  to  recall  May's  face,  as 
she  lay  on  a  couch  near  the  window  and 
looked  at  the  sea.  The  child  could  not 
speak,  but  her  face  was  enough. 

Back  to  London,  with  a  quiet  resolve  to 
do  his  duty,  Harry  Rivers  came.  He  was 
soon  quite  a  favorite  with  Mr.  Frere  ;  but 
though  of  course  he  frequently  saw  Mr. 
Marshall,  the  old  gentleman  took  no  more 
notice  of  him  than  of  any  other  clerk. 

Harry  little  suspected  how  closely  his 
grandfather  watched  him. 


CHAPTER  V. 


A  BEIGHT  ENDING. 

>HUS  passed  away  the  rest  of  that 
sultry  summer.  The  winter  which 
followed  it  was  mild  and  warm,  and 
May  seemed  to  gain  strength  ;  her  breathing 
was  quite  relieved,  and  the  sad  pain  in  her 
back  tormented  her  less.  Harry  saw  her 
occasionally,  when  Mr.  Frere  would  give  him 
leave  to  quit  the  office  early  on  Saturday, 
and  he  would  spend  Sunday  with  his  mother 
and  May.  He  began  to  hope  that  soon  his 
little  darling  would  begin  to  walk  again,  but 
Mr.  Godfrey,  who  had  more  experience, 
shook  his  head,  and  bid  him  not  dwell  upon 
such  thoughts. 
318 


HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  d!9 

Then  came  spring,  bringing  keen  east 
winds,  even  in  sheltered  Dawlish  ;  and  May 
began  to  fail  again,  but  very  slowly.  Her 
mother  and  brother  ceased  to  hope  that  she 
would  be  restored  to  them,  yet  they  thought 
they  might  keep  her  with  them  for  many 
months  more.  The  end,  however,  was 
nearer  than  they  imagined. 

One  Friday  Harry  was  in  his  usual  place 
in  the  office,  hard  at  work.  No  clerk  in  Mr. 
Marshall's  employment  got  through  more 
work,  or  did  it  better,  than  Harry  Rivers. 
And  of  this  Mr.  Marshall  was  fully  aware, 
little  as  he  seemed  to  notice  him.  And  one 
reward  of  this  conscientious  conduct  was, 
that  the  work  which  had  been  so  distasteful 
appeared  quite  interesting  now,  since  he  had 
forced  himself  to  take  an  interest  in  doing  it 
well. 

His  desk  was  next  the  door  of  the  outer 
office  ;  at  that  very  desk  his  father  had  sat 
long  ago,  and  "  F.  Rivers  "  was  cut  upon  it 
with  a  penknife.  Harry  took  it  for  granted 
that  his  father  had  cut  those  letters  himself, 


320  HABRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

and  frequently,  when  no  one  was  near, 
passed  his  hand  over  them,  just  for  the 
pleasure  of  touching  what  that  dear  father 
had  touched.  But  just  now  he  was  very 
busy,  adding  up  long  columns  of  figures, 
when  the  outer  door  opened,  and  Mr.  God- 
frey came  hastily  in.  "  Harry,"  he  whispered, 
"  come  out  here  with  me  for  a  moment." 

Harry  obeyed,  turning  very  pale.  "Mr. 
Godfrey,"  he  said,  "  May  is  worse  !  I  know 
it." 

Mr.  Godfrey  put  a  letter  into  his  hand ;  it 
was  marked  "  Immediate." 

Yes,  May  was  worse,  much  worse.  "  A 
sudden,  awful  change,"  his  mother  wrote ; 
"  you  must  come  to  us  at  once,  dear  Harry, 
if  you  possibly  can."  Harry  was  still  reading 
his  letter,  half  stunned,  when  Mr.  Frere 
came  out  of  the  counting-house  to  ask  what 
was  the  matter.  Mr.  Godfrey  explained  to 
him. 

"  Rivers,"  said  the  old  clerk,  kindly,  "  Mr. 
Marshall  is  in  his  private  room  now ;  go  to 
him  and  get  leave ;  he  will  be  going  away 
directly." 


HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  321 

Harry  went  and  knocked  at  the  door. 

"Come  in.  What  do  you  want,  Mr. 
Rivers  ?  " 

"  I  have  had  a  letter,  sir,  to  say  that  my 
sister  is  much  worse  —  dying,  I  fear  —  and 
I  want  to  go  to  her,  if  you  will  allow  me." 

"  Certainly.  You  may  go  at  once.  Who 
wrote  to  you  ?  " 

"  My  mother,  sir." 

"  Have  you  any  objection  to  show  me  the 
letter?"  inquired  the  old  man,  in  exactly 
the  same  business-like  voice.  Harry  gave 
it  to  him,  and  waited  while  he  read  it.  Then, 
refolding  it,  Mr.  Marshall  gave  it  back, 
saying, 

"The  child  seems  in  a  very  bad  way. 
You  may  remain  as  long  as  you  are  wanted, 
Mr.  Rivers." 

Harry  bowed  and  withdrew.  He  lost  no 
time  in  hastening  to  Dawlish;  but,  to  his 
sorrow,  little  May  did  not  know  him.  She 
lay  there  quiet,  and  at  ease  apparently,  but 
she  took  no  notice  of  anything.  She  had 
been  in  that  state  for  hours,  and  the  doctor 


322  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

thought  she  would  pass  away  without  any 
further  suffering.  But  poor  Harry  longed 
sorely  for  one  word  from  the  dear,  patient 
voice,  one  look  of  love  from  the  pretty  blue 
eyes  ;  and  he  was  not  denied  this  consolation. 
On  Sunday  morning  the  church  bells  seemed 
to  rouse  her  ;  she  opened  her  eyes  suddenly, 
and  asked,  "  Has  Harry  come  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  I  am  here,  May." 

"  Is  this  you,  Harry  ?  My  eyes  are  so  dim 
that  I  cannot  see  you  plainly.  But  I  am 
glad  you  are  come  in  time  to  say  good-bye  to 
me ;  and  I  wanted  to  thank  you,  too,  for  you 
have  made  me  very  happy  here  with  mam- 
ma, and  I  have  had  so  little  pain  since  I 
came  here.  Take  care  of  mamma,  Harry; 
don't  let  her  fret." 

Harry  made  no  answer ;  he  was  weeping 
bitterly. 

The  child  looked  from  one  to  the  other 
with  a  strange,  sweet  smile:  "Don't  cry," 
she  said  ;  "  there  is  no  reason  to  cry,  you 
know  —  we  shall  all  meet  again  in  heaven, 
and  be  so  happy,  all  of  us  well  and  strong, 
remember,  and  papa,  COUH  hack." 


HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  82& 

"Yes,  my  little  May,"  Harry  said,  gently. 
**  It  is  well  for  you,  and  we  must  try  to  be 
content,  but  it  is  hard  for  us." 

"  Yet  I  have  been  very  useless  and  trouble- 
some. Oh,  Harry !  think  that  very  soon,  in- 
stead of  lying  here,  not  able  to  do  anything 
for  anybody,  I  shall  be  with  Him !  with 
Jesus  and  his  angels! — for  though  I  have 
been  useless  and  silly,  and  often  cross  and 
impatient,  I  know  that  it  is  all  forgiven. 
He  loves  us  so,  he  will  forget  all  that,  just  as 
mamma  does  ;  for  mamma  won't  even  let  me 
say  that  I  was  often  cross ;  she  always  puts 
her  hand  on  my  lips,  and  says,  '  You  are  my 
darling,  May.'  And  I  know  he  will  say, 
*  You  are  my  own  little  child ;  I  was  often 
sorry  for  you.'  Don't  you  think,  Harry,  he 
loves  me  as  much  as  mamma  does  ?  " 

Harry  could  not  answer,  his  voice  was 
choked,  but  Mrs.  Rivers,  strong  in  the 
mother's  love  to  which  the  child  appealed, 
spoke  at  once,  "Much  better,  my  darling. 
Mine  is  but  a  human  love,  weak  and  power- 
less? his  love  is  Divine  and  almighty.  He 


324  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

loves  you  better  than  any  one  on  earth  could 
love." 

"  That's  what  the  hymn  says  —  the  one 
you  said  last  night.  Say  it  again,  mamma." 

Mrs.  Rivers  began  at  once  — 

"Can  a  mother's  tender  care 
Cease  toward  the  child  she  bare  ? 
Yes,  she  may  forgetful  be, 
Yet  will  I  remember  thee. 

Mine  is  an  unchanging  lore, 
Higher  than  the  heights  above, 
Deeper  than  the  depths  beneath, 
Free  and  faithful,  strong  as  death. 

Thou  shalt  see  my  glory  soon, 
When  the  work  of  grace  is  done ; 
Partner  of  my  throne  shalt  be,  — 
Say,  poor  sinner,  lovest  thou  me  ?  " 

"  Ah,  indeed  I  do,"  May  whispered  softly. 
"How  could  I  help  it?  Not  enough  —  but 
soon  I  shall  love  better.  Mamma,  I  am  so 
sleepy." 

Then  she  slept,  and  waking  presently,  said 
she  had  "lovely  dreams  —  all  about  angels." 
And  when  the  bells  rung  out  their  evening 
chimes  May  was  with  the  angels,  and  with 


HARRY'S  PEBPLEXITY.  326 

their  Lord  and  hers.  Mother  and  son  grieved 
for  their  darling,  but  they  knew  that  theif 
sorrow  was  only  for  themselves.  They  did 
not  wish  her  back  again  in  her  suffering  life. 
Still  they  felt  very  sad  and  lonely  when  they 
returned  to  London,  leaving  all  that  was 
mortal  of  their  little  May  lying  in  the  pretty 
church-yard,  within  hearing  of  the  sea  she 
had  loved  so  well. 

One  morning,  some  time  afterwards,  when 
Mrs.  Rivers  had  returned  to  London,  Harry 
was  just  leaving  home  to  go  to  the  office, 
when  his  mother  stopped  him. 

"  Harry,  dear,  don't  you  think  you  might 
return  to  your  studies  now?  I  am  quite 
sure  that  I  could  earn  enough  to  support  us 
both  in  a  very  poor  way,  but  you  would  not 
mind  that." 

Harry  kissed  her.  "  Yes,  mother !  I 
should  mind  it  very  much.  In  fact,  I  won't 
hear  of  it.  Now  hold  your  tongue,  ma'am  ; 
I'm  going  to  be  a  regular  tyrant  to  you,  and 
have  my  way  in  everything  ;  and  you  shall 
never  work  for  my  living,  nor  for  your  owu 


326  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

either,  as  long  as  I  can  earn  enough  for  both 
of  us. 

"  But,  Harry,  I  cannot  bear  the  idea  of 
keeping  you  at  work  you  dislike  —  all  for 
me,  when  I  am  still  young  and  strong." 

"  Not  over-strong,  mother.  I  don't  dis- 
like my  work  either.  I  did  at  first,  but  I 
really  do  not  now.  Besides,  I  am  not  losing 
all  my  time ;  I  get  a  good  deal  of  work, 
painting,  I  mean,  done  in  the  early  morn- 
ings, and  in  the  evenings  too,  and,  curious 
to  say,  I  believe  I  am  improving  very 
much." 

"  But  if  you  gave  up  the  office  — 

"  Mother,  don't  tempt  me.  Even  if  it 
were  not  my  duty  to  provide  for  you,  com- 
mon honesty  would  make  me  remain  in  the 
office.  I  agreed  with  Mr.  Marshall  that  if 
he  gave  me  a  larger  salary  at  first,  I  would 
remain  until  I  had  worked  it  out ;  so  that 
settles  the  question,  and  I'm  glad  of  it,  for 
you  would  otherwise  coax  me  into  leaving, 
and  then  I  should  feel  as  good  for  nothing 
and  wicked  as  I  did  before  I  went  there." 


HABBY'S  PERPLEXITY.  327 

"  You  are  very  obstinate,  Harry." 

"Very;  and  you  had  better  give  in  at 
once.  Now,  mother !  ought  I  not  to  fill  my 
father's  place  as  far  as  I  can?  Don't  remind 
me  of  the  time  when  I  was  so  selfish." 

"  Dear  boy,  you  never  were  selfish.  You 
are  not  like  your  father  in  face,  Harry  ;  but 
yet  somehow  you  remind  me  so  much  of 
him  sometimes." 

"  Mother,"  said  Harry,  earnestly,  "  I  had 
rather  hear  you  say  that  than  be  the  greatest 
painter  the  world  ever  saw." 

Mr.  Marshall  had  been  out  of  town  for 
some  time,  but  came  back  that  morning.  In 
the  course  of  the  day  Mr.  Frere  sent  Harry 
into  the  private  room  with  some  papers  ;  his 
grandfather  took  them  in  silence,  glancing  at 
the  black  dress.  Presently  he  said, 

"  The  child  died,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Harry,  in  a  low  voice. 
Mr.  Marshall  opened  his  letters,  and  Harry 
was  leaving  the  room,  when  again  looking 
up,  the  old  man  said  drily, 

"  You'll  be   going  back  to  your  artist  life 


328  HABBY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

now,  I  suppose.  You  have  no  further  object 
in  remaining  here." 

"  I  have  my  mother  still,  thank  heaven, 
Besides,  sir,  you  forget  I  have  to  work  out 
my  extra  salary." 

"  Ay,  I  remember  all  that,  but  I  fancied 
your  memory  might  fail  you.  How  long  do 
you  expect  it  will  take  you  to  work  it  out  ?  " 

44  Ten  years,  if  I  go  on  at  my  present  rate 
without  the  usual  increase." 

"You  are  right,  I  think  —  yes,  in  ten 
years  we  shall  be  quits.  But  ten  years  is  a 
long  time.  You'll  be  eight-and-twenty 
then." 

"  I  shall,  sir." 

"After  all,"  said  the  old  man,  looking 
very  keenly  at  him  — "  after  all,  you  are 
better  off,  I  suspect.  Not  one  artist  in  a 
hundred  succeeds:  the  other  ninety-nine 
starve.  I  dare  say  you  prefer  remaining  in 
my  employment  on  that  account." 

"  No,  sir.  I  believe  I  should  succeed ;  and 
I  love  it  for  its  own  sake." 

"  So  then,  when  our  bargain  ends,  you 


HARRY'S  PEBPLEXITY.  329 

mean  to  begin  life  again  as  an  artist,  at  eight- 
and-twenty  —  eh  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell  what  I  shall  do,  Mr. 
Marshall.  I  am  quite  content  to  leave  it  till 
the  time  comes." 

"  Well,  I'll  give  you  my  opinion,  Harry 
Rivers,  if  you  care  to  have  it.  You'll  do 
your  duty,  whatever  that  may  be.  Take 
these  words  of  praise  from  one  who  praises 
rarely,  and  who  has  watched  you  closely. 
You  may  go  now,"  he  added,  shortly. 

Harry  was  detained  at  the  office  that  day 
until  five  o'clock,  as  there  was  an  unusual 
press  of  business.  On  his  way  home  he  had 
to  pass  the  church  they  attended.  The  bell 
was  ringing  for  evening  service.  He  knew 
his  mother  would  be  there,  so  he  went  in 
also  ;  he  seldom  had  time  for  church-going 
on  week  days  now. 

He  seated  himself  just  where  he  had  sat 
on  that  summer  evening  years  ago,  when  for 
the  last  time  he  had  heard  his  father's  deep 
sweet  voice  in  the  choir.  The  words  of  the 
hymn,  and  the  conversation  that  had  followed, 


330  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

came  back  into  his  mind  very  clearly.  He 
remembered  how  unatural  it  had  seemed  to 
him,  and  how  he  had  declared  that  to  that 
state  of  mind  he  never  could  come.  And 
his  father  had  answered,  "  I  don't  mind 
promising  you  that  you  will  understand  that 
hymn  one  of  these  days."  Then  his  own 
speech  that  morning  to  his  grandfather  came 
back  to  him,  •*  I  am  quite  content  to  leave  it 
till  the  time  comes."  His  father  had  been 
right.  He  had  learned  the  lesson  taught  by 
sorrow  and  trial ;  "  one  step  "  was  enough 
for  him  now,  provided  that  step  was  in  the 
right  direction. 

I  might  leave  my  young  hero  here,  and  no 
one  would  have  any  cause  to  pity  him,  for  he 
had  found  the  peace  that  the  world  can  never 
give  nor  take  away.  But  there  was  another 
change  in  store  for  him,  of  which  I  must  now 
tell  you. 

It  did  not  come  for  two  years,  during 
which  Harry  worked  away,  both  in  the  office 
and  at  his  painting.  Mr.  Eastwood  came 
home  from  Italy,  and  found  his  old  pupil 


HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY.  331 

established  with  his  mother  and  Mr.  Godfrey 
in  a  pleasant  small  house  in  Kensington, 
where  Harry  had  an  attic  all  to  himself  as  a 
studio  ;  which  made  him  very  happy,  but  he 
kept  it  in  such  an  untidy  state  that  it  was  a 
constant  source  of  grief  to  his  mother.  Art- 
ists, perhaps  you  are  not  aware,  are  not  ad- 
dicted to  neatness ;  they  don't  like  the  pro- 
cess of  putting  by  their  implements  when 
they  leave  off  work,  nor  do  they  even  like  to 
have  it  done  for  them,  as  Mrs.  Rivers  dis- 
covered after  one  or  two  attempts  of  the 
kind,  which  drove  poor  Harry  to  distraction. 
Mr.  Eastwood  declared  that  his  old  pupil  had 
got  on  as  much  during  his  absence  as  he 
would  have  done  had  he  been  at  home  and 
still  giving  him  lessons ;  and  with  this  en- 
couragement Harry  worked  harder  than 
ever. 

But  a  day  came  that  put  an  end  to  this 
state  of  things  very  suddenly  and  unex- 
pectedly. Harry  was  in  his  usual  place  in 
the  counting-house,  and  all  was  going  on  as 
usual,  though  Mr.  Marshall  had  not  arrived 


382  HARRY'S  PERPLEXITY. 

at  his  appointed  hour.  Jennings,  the  porter, 
entered  with  a  note  for  Mr.  Frere,  on  read- 
ing which  that  generally  staid  and  quiet  man 
rushed  out  of  the  house  without  his  hat, 
hailed  a  hansom,  and  was  whirled  away 
without  having  given  any  explanation  to  the 
other  clerks.  He  was  absent  for  some  time, 
and  when  he  returned  it  was  to  dismiss  them 
all  to  their  homes,  and  to  close  the  counting- 
house  for  several  days,  for  their  stern  but 
just  master  was  dead.  He  had  died  in  the 
night  quite  suddenly,  having  gone  to  bed  ap- 
parently in  his  usual  health. 

Little  as  Harry  had  seen  of  his  grand- 
father, he  was  both  shocked  and  grieved; 
and  he  knew  moreover,  that  his  death  would 
be  a  real  sorrow  to  his  mother,  who  had 
never  quite  ceased  to  hope  for  her  father's 
forgiveness.  He  hurried  home,  that  she 
might  hear  it  first  from  him,  and  not  from 
common  report.  Poor  Mary  was  sadly  over- 
come. 

But  imagine  her  surprise,  when,  the  day 
after  the  funeral,  her  eldest  brother,  now 


HAEEY'S  PEBPLBXITY.  333 

the  head  of  the  house,  came  to  see  her,  and 
to  assure  her  that  until  that  day  he  had 
never  known  Harry  Rivers  to  be  her  son 
and  his  nephew,  often  as  he  had  seen  him  in 
the  counting-house.  He  knew  it  now  from 
the  following  words  in  his  father's  will  — 
they  had  been  added  to  it  about  the  time  of 
May's  death. 

"  To  my  grandson,  Henry  Marshall  Riv- 
ers, now  in  my  employment  as  clerk,  I  leave 
two  hundred  pounds  a  year,  to  be  paid  to 
him  by  my  eldest  son.  And  I  release  my 
grandson  from  his  engagement  to  remain  in 
the  service  of  the  firm  for  ten  years  from 
this  date.  And  I  wish  to  make  known  to 
my  sons  that  Henry  Rivers  has  won  my  re- 
spect and  esteem  by  his  upright  and  honor- 
able conduct  while  in  my  employment." 

This  request  made  Harry  a  very  happy 
man.  Now  he  could  return  to  the  profes- 
sion he  loved,  and  realize  all  his  brightest 
dreams,  without  exposing  his  mother  to 
hardship  and  distress.  He  is  now  studying 
in  Italy,  and  his  name  is  becoming  well 
known  as  a  rising  artist. 


